


Rose from the Foam HD Remaster

by project_icarus



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mesopotamian Mythology - Freeform, Mythology References, POV Second Person, Partners to Lovers, Reader-Insert, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Romance, Treasure Hunting, no y/n
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27425158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_icarus/pseuds/project_icarus
Summary: Your search for Aphrodite's magical cestus will take you far and wide, from Cyprus to the Middle East. Sam Drake is to keep you safe, the guts to your glory, as you embark on this adventure together.Updates on Saturdays!A rewrite ofRose From The Foam.
Relationships: Samuel Drake/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rose From The Foam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941306) by [project_icarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_icarus/pseuds/project_icarus). 



> i've been wanting to finish rose from the foam for SUCH a long time, but in the end i was so unhappy with it that i decided it needed a total rewrite. i hope this new version is okay.
> 
> here's to getting this thing finished this time!

There will be a gala at the museum, held in your honour. Hundreds will attend, all of them there to see you and your discovery. Your name will be called, and you’ll come forward to receive your accolades, awash with applause, the sashay of your step serving every person who ever doubted you a sweet slice of humble pie.

One day. After you’ve, you know, made the discovery.

“More wine,” you say, or grunt, gesturing to your empty glass.

You’re in your crappy apartment, tucked away on a middle floor of a crappy complex, up to your neck in research.

You stretch your arms over your head, joints popping as you roll your neck from side to side. You’ve been hunched over your coffee table for hours now, hammering out the details of the speech you have to give tomorrow. Alas, it’s not one of acceptance, but instead designed to convince rich old men to part with their money when they’ve no desire to.

Jackson, your research assistant, tops up your wineglass and settles back into the couch beside you to resume tapping away on his laptop. His lanky form takes up most of the space, and you have to wedge yourself against the armrest to make room for him again.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters, when no word of thanks is forthcoming.

“Don’t start getting pissy, I’ve got way too much on my mind right now.”

He rolls his eyes. You should really start being nicer to him, before it comes back to bite you in the ass. It would be easier if he didn't get drunk and hit on you every single weekend.

“So, run it by me again,” he says. “You’re opening with the story of Aphrodite and Hephaestus?”

“I don’t know if I should. These guys are experts, I don’t want to insult them by telling them something they already know.”

“Assuming they already know everything can be just as insulting.”

You groan, staring down at your papers until the words turn into meaningless squiggles. “I hate all of this. Why can’t I just walk in and say, ‘Hey, give me all of your money and I’ll go out and find you an ancient mythical artefact?’”

“Just tell them the same story you told me, that'll hook them. Why do you think I've put up with you for this long?”

The thought that one day he’ll find his way into your pants, but you’re not having that argument again.

“All right. I can do that.” You’re struck with an idea. “Hey, give me your laptop. I just want to look up—"

He snaps the computer shut in an instant, almost nipping your questing fingers. “No! Just use your phone.”

“What’s your problem? What are you doing on there?”

“I—nothing. Mind your business.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to read your messages or anything.”

“Your phone’s on there, under the papers.”

“Fine, Jesus.” You paw around the coffee table until you find your phone, using it to look up the passage from Homer's Iliad that you want to read.

“Can I ask you something?” He eases his laptop open again, the screen angled squarely away from you.

“Sure.”

“If there was a way to get the funding without going through all this bullshit, wouldn’t you want to take it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, if someone else was willing to fund the expedition, no questions asked.”

“No questions asked? Someone like who?” Your eyes narrow. “Who have you been talking to?”

“No one!” He shakes his head. “I was just thinking—never mind.”

You sigh into your drink. “Look, I know it’s been rough working for me.”

“You can say that again.”

“We’re the laughing stock of the archaeology department, and it sucks, okay, I get it. But I really think tomorrow could be my chance. Our chance.”

“Then why haven’t they given us any time to prepare? You don’t think they’ve cooked this up just to laugh at us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, they wouldn’t do that. You think they’d waste their precious time?”

“If they thought it was funny enough. I just wish we didn’t need them, the bastards.”

“Me too. But I’d still rather have their support than some black-market art dealer you met in India last month.”

His fingers still on the keyboard. “You what?”

You’d suspected as much. “I saw you, chatting up Richard Clemens when we were at the exhibition where they unveiled the Tusk of Ganesh.”

“So what? You were fawning all over that Frazer woman. I imagine you didn’t tell her how you think that people in her line of work are ‘little more than grave robbers?’”

“No, it didn’t come up.”

“I bet.”

Grave robbers or no, the life of someone like Chloe Frazer has a certain appeal. What you wouldn’t give to be able to just jump on a plane to Cyprus right now and charm your way into the underbelly of one of the country’s most sacred historical sites. But for someone like you, someone normal, there are rules and regulations, and a severe lack of funds.

Jackson performs another of his great heaving sighs. “Let’s just forget all of that, okay? We need to focus.”

“You’re right.” You press on, undaunted. “So, I’ll ask if any of them remember this part of the Iliad, and I can reference the conversation here between Hera and Aphrodite, where Hera borrows the cestus. Oh! I’ll need the cult letters, too. Find them for me?”

“I emailed them to you already. Where’s your tablet?”

You shrug. “Hurry up, I need to check my wording.”

He huffs, closing his laptop and setting it aside so he can sift through the paperwork on the table.

You sit there and watch him, letting your frown make itself known now that his back is turned. He’s up to something; he’s never this defensive. If he’s been talking to someone about your project behind your back—what can you do about it? Kick him out? He already knows your plans for the expedition.

You should have kept him closer. He can be a creep sometimes, but he's the only one who's ever taken you seriously.

At last, he finds your tablet buried under a collapsed stack of reference books, and he hands it to you.

“Thank you,” you say, hoping it’s not too little too late.

You just need the meeting to go well tomorrow. If you can get the funding, nothing else will matter.

***

Sam hasn’t been told to wash up before dinner in decades. Elena’s a sweetheart (and a badass, no doubt about it), but there’s something infantilising about her motherly tone.

Is this the fate of all married men? To be imprisoned by white pickets and gentle arms? Is this what he should be looking forward to? The arguments over chores, the stresses of—Jesus—starting a family?

He catches his own eye in the mirror above the sink as he scrubs his hands clean, then glances over his shoulder at the thrift-store-find embroidery hanging on the wall behind him. The house is full to bursting with knick-knacks, icons of myth and meaning, little landmarks in the building of a life. A life not meant for him. His blood already itches with the urge to move on.

He dries off and leaves the washroom, but the moment he hears his brother’s laughter from the dinner table, his uncomfortable, twisty feelings straighten themselves out into an ineffable warmth.

The two aren’t mutually exclusive; he can be ecstatic for his little brother while absolutely not wanting the same thing for himself. There’s a comfort in that, somewhere.

He joins Nathan and his wife at the table with just the slightest awkwardness, slipping into their conversation and finding himself most welcome.

Later, after dinner, the brothers sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the back porch. Elena emerges from the little weather-beaten shed, a miniature plant pot in hand.

“Here.” She hands it to Sam with a smile. “For an ashtray.”

“Oh. Thank you very much.” He takes it, lighting up a cigarette now she’s given her permission.

She sits on Nathan’s other side and unscrews her beer, and the three sit in companionable silence for a while, soaking in the warm evening air.

The backyards of suburbia stretch on forever around them, stained purple by the dusky sky, the sun throwing orange rays over the horizon as it dips out of view. There’s a dog off somewhere barking to be let back inside, and rowdy kids play just down the street.

“When we go back in the house, I’ll look for the pictures I drew of Shambhala,” Nathan says.

Sam smirks. “Oh good, more drawings. You know, I can’t wait for them to invent the camera.”

“Fine, then I won’t show you.”

“No, wait, I want to see them!”

“You ruined it.”

“There is one photo,” Elena says, before the elbow jabbing can get out of hand. "From El Dorado."

“Oh?” Sam refrains from pinching his brother for the moment, to let her speak.

“Yeah, remember, Nate? Me, you, and Sullivan with the big pile of treasure?”

“Oh yeah. Why don’t you go and find it? I want to show it to Sam.”

“All right, be back in a minute.” She gets up and shares a look with Nathan.

Why does Sam suddenly feel like he’s about to be under attack? Should he run for cover?

Nathan knocks his shoulder with his own. “You all right, smoky?” he says, his voice pitched low and concerned.

“Of course.”

“You’ve been pretty quiet these last few days.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. Something on your mind?”

Staying here with Nathan has been grand, it really has, but maybe he has been a little subdued. He’s used to not belonging, but it’s like he has to tiptoe around his brother’s apple pie life so he doesn’t leave muddy boot prints along the pristine crust.

“Hey,” Nathan says when he remains silent. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Come on, you can tell me.”

Sam sighs. “It’s just… you remember when you were talking about feeling kind of empty? When the adventure’s over…”

“I remember. Why, you starting to get what I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, a little.” He crushes his cigarette into the bottom of the plant pot, setting it down by his feet with a clunk. “This whole striking out on my own thing is, uh, not as fun as I thought it would be.”

Nathan was supposed to be his buddy, his partner in all things. They were going to accomplish so many great feats, and they have, albeit not always together.

“You’ve got Sully,” Nathan says, “and Chloe and Nadine.”

“Yeah, it’s just—”

“Not the same? Yup, I’ve been there.”

“Right.” Damn.

Nathan went it (mostly) alone for fifteen years, believing his brother was dead, and Sam’s bitching and moaning about it when he gets to see Nathan whenever he wants? What’s up with that?

“Maybe I’m just feeling my age or something,” Sam says ruefully. “I’ve still got an adventure or two in me though, I think.”

“You want my advice?” Nathan says. “Go on your adventures. When it’s time to hang it up, you’ll know.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting life advice from my baby brother. When the hell did you become so smart?”

“Don’t pretend like I haven’t always been the smart one.”

“Guess that makes me the handsome one, huh?”

Nathan scoffs. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy. You finish your beer? We should go find Elena.”

“All right.” Sam stands and dusts off his jeans. “Just how long have you guys been planning to corner me like this?”

“Hey, I’m completely innocent. I just wanted a nice little heart-to-heart with my big brother.”

“Sure, sure, and I’m the queen of Shambhala.” Sam reaches the back door first, and holds it open for Nathan.

Elena sits at the table, twirling a photograph between her fingers. She jumps a little when they come in. “Oh, that was quick—I mean, everything all right, you two?”

Sam smiles at her, his sister-in-law, and goes to sit beside her. “Everything is perfect. Now, show me this picture.”

She lays it flat on the table and slides it towards him.

His eyebrows raise. “Holy shit.”

But somehow, it’s not the crates of treasure, how much younger Victor looks, or even Nathan’s ridiculous belt buckle that holds his attention. It’s the subtle way Nathan and Elena lean into each other, with his hand lingering by her knee.

So, Sam’s lonely. So what? Is that a crime? It’ll pass, just like it always does. He just needs to get back out there.


	2. Chapter 2

You put up your umbrella and step out of the university into the pouring rain, your cheap heels click-clacking as you dawdle down the sopping pavement. The wind picks up a plastic wrapper, making it dance along the gutter before it succumbs and the flow of rainwater sucks it into the drain. You sympathise. Today cannot get any worse.

Where the fuck is Jackson? You jam your phone to your ear, the speaker crackling with water damage as you get his voicemail for what must be the fiftieth time.

He didn’t show. The opportunity of a lifetime and he didn’t show. And now everything is fucked.

“Please don’t be dead in a ditch somewhere,” you say into the phone. “But at this point, that might be the only excuse I’ll accept.”

You slip the phone back into the inside pocket of your jacket to try and keep it dry.

The senior archaeologists on the funding board all but laughed you out of the meeting, unimpressed as they were with your stumbling answers and complete lack of presentation. Jackson was supposed to be there to hand out materials to back up your points, and prompt you if you floundered.

Have you leaned on him too heavily? Shouldn’t you be more independent?

He’d been a promising up-and-coming historian, with papers lauded by his peers, until he met you. Until he fell for your over excited claims of absolute certainty, and believed you when you said you knew where to find one of the forgotten relics of ancient Greek mythology. Thus, his reputation was tarnished with your own.

Did he really resent you? Enough to… ditch you today on purpose?

No, he wouldn’t. What would he have to gain? He’d be screwing himself just as much as you.

The rain pitter-patters on your umbrella, and you sigh. There goes your dream of affirmation. There’ll be no plaque with your name on, no big museum display.

You need to talk to Jackson. If nothing else, to tell him that the day you’re both yearning for is a lot further off than you were hoping. Then you’ll have a little cry.

You traipse down the street, cars zipping past and splashing tidal waves of water into your path. If you end up soaked through, you’ll not be too surprised. It’s that kind of day.

Finally, you make it to your apartment building, and you shake your umbrella in the doorway before heading inside. The lobby floor is wet and muddy, and you have to waddle like a penguin so as not to slip and make an even bigger fool of yourself. You get to the elevator and push the button. When nothing happens, you push it again. And again. Oh, god, please, no.

“Lift’s out of order.”

You turn to the caretaker mopping the floor. “Are you serious?”

He nods. “Engineer won’t be here ‘til tomorrow.”

“I’m up on the tenth floor!”

“Better get climbing those stairs, then.”

You groan, and drag yourself around to the stairwell. Maybe if you have your cry on the way up, you’ll save yourself some time.

By the time you’re halfway up, your legs are burning. You’re panting and sweating, and your feet hurt in the stupid heels you decided to wear today. Between the rain and the unexpected workout, your hair is a mess and your makeup is running, so you’re in a foul mood by the time you get to your apartment door and start rooting around in the depths of your handbag for your keys.

You pause, listening.

There’s someone inside your apartment, moving around in there. You strain your ears, picking up a familiar voice—it’s Jackson! You try the door, and it’s unlocked, so you push it open.

Oh, god. What…

Your apartment is full of strange men and they’re ransacking it. They’ve upturned most of your furniture and scattered your personal belongings over the warped laminate floor. Some of the thugs are filling cardboard boxes with your things, while others seem to just be there to make a mess.

In the centre of all the chaos, with his back to you, stands the tallest man in the room: Jackson.

“What the hell?” you squeak. No one so much as glances in your direction.

“You’re early,” Jackson says, not turning around. “The meeting must have gone really badly.”

You slam the door behind you and march over to him. Why is he just standing by and watching them pillage your home? And why is he flicking through the pages of your private journal?

He looks up at you and smirks. “You’re an incredibly lonely person, did you know that?”

“And you’re a creep. Give me that.” You snatch the diary from him. “Tell me who these goons are and what they’re doing here.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at you in a way he’s never dared to before. “They’re doing some heavy lifting for me.”

The slimy bastard! “Is this where you were when I needed you today? What are you doing?”

“I’m taking your research materials. Your papers, your computer, your maps. All of it.”

“What? You can’t! Why are you doing this?” You look on in horror as a battle-scarred man stomps past you, carrying a box of effects from your room.

Curiously, he also barges past Jackson, knocking into him without so much as a backward glance. Jackson looks affronted, but doesn’t seem to have the balls to say anything. He turns back to you.

“I’m cutting you out,” he says.

You’ve been holding back up until now, on the off chance that this is all some elaborate ruse, but now you’re dangling off the edge of fury. “Cutting me out? This is my project!”

“And what have you accomplished so far? You’ve pissed away any real chance you ever had, bowing and scraping to those stuffed shirts at the university!”

“So, who are you bowing to? Richard Clemens? A criminal?”

“It’s a hell of a lot better than bowing to you.”

You swallow. Have you really been that awful to him? “You can’t do this.”

His eyes are cold now, like he can’t even muster up the stamina to stay angry. “Just be a good girl and go and sit down. Let the boys finish up.”

You bristle. “What the fuck makes you think I’m going to let you walk out of here with my life’s work?”

In answer, he lifts one side of his leather jacket, revealing a gun resting in its holster there.

Shock draws a laugh from you. “What, you’re going to shoot me? Did your new friend give you that?”

He scowls and makes a show of reaching for the pistol. “Don’t test me, all right?”

“Okay, okay.” You raise your hands. “You’ve made your point.”

Would he really do it? Could he? You’ve never been held at gunpoint, but you’ve a sneaking suspicion you wouldn’t like it very much, so you huff to yourself but say nothing further.

You pull a chair out from the flimsy flatpack desk against the wall and slump into it. This morning, the table held a stack of Greek and Latin textbooks and various other translational aids. Now it’s empty as a farmer’s field during a famine.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he says, picking up your bag from where it sits by your feet.

Before you can answer, he tips it out onto the table and hums, going over the contents. All manner of junk comes tumbling out, including your keys and various crumpled receipts.

He opens up your wallet and whistles. “Funds a little tight this month?”

You’re ready for this ordeal to be over. “You don’t have to do this.”

He ignores you, still sifting through your belongings.

You put your head in your hands. “It’s taken me years to collect all of that information.” One of the men destroying your apartment is rifling through your underwear drawer and you see red. “You’re not going to find anything of interest in there!”

He looks over at you, grinning, before pulling the drawer out from the dresser and emptying it all over the floor. You seethe as your delicates are strewn about for all to see.

“I think we’ve got everything we came for,” Jackson says, calling off his brutes not a moment too soon.

You look up at him, miserable. “What now?”

“You sit tight, maybe clear up this mess. Forget all about Aphrodite.” He’s enjoying this way too much.

“And if I don’t?”

He pats his side where the gun is concealed. “If you mention a word of this to anyone, or if I find hide or hair of you in Cyprus, I’ll put a bullet in you.” His voice shakes a little on the threat. “Do you understand?”

“You’re going to Cyprus?” you say before you can stop yourself, bypassing his ultimatum completely.

“Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.” The word is sour in your mouth as you force it through your gritted teeth.

“Good.” He waits for the last of his cronies leave before he leans in and speaks softly. “Please, if you know what’s good for you, stay out of my way.”

He leaves you then, shutting the front door behind him with a click.

Everything’s quiet now, aside from your laboured breathing. Did that really just happen? Judging by the carnage all around you, yes, it did.

You get up and drift over to the door, turning the latch in a daze. Why even bother? What more can they take from you?

You take a stroll through your apartment, and find your floor lamp is still upright and intact, like it’s mocking you. You kick it over.

“God damn it!” You stamp on the shade, smashing the bulb under your heel for good measure. Tears prick your eyes, but you’re not going to give in to them just yet.

How could Jackson do this to you? Is it because you wouldn't sleep with him? You should never have trusted him!

You trample through the wreckage, breakfast cereal crunching beneath your feet like an expensive gravel driveway, and you bypass the contents of your cutlery drawer on the way to your bed. The mattress is on the floor, the sheets stripped off and heaped nearby. You flop down onto the mattress, the cogs in your brain already whirring away.

Should you just give up? It would be the easiest thing to do, maybe even a relief to stop struggling. How many times can you be beaten down before you stop getting back up?

Could you do that? Catalogue nondescript fragments in a dusty backroom of a museum for the rest of your life? Could you live with yourself?

That would be its own kind of struggle.

No, you can’t lie down and die. No matter what, you must seek your fortune!

You need to act fast.

You spring to action, rushing back to the table to paw through the detritus from your purse. Please, don’t let him have taken it. You need that business card!

Relieved, your spot the little white rectangle, picking it up only to cringe. It’s the Bikini Inspector card your friend gave you at a party once, why on earth are you still carrying it around? You toss it aside and continue your search.

There’s no way in hell you’re letting Jackson steal your glory. You’ve put too much into this to let that stupidly tall, floppy haired fuck take it from you.

“Found you!” You clutch the business card in your hand, triumphant. It’s the right one this time; Chloe Frazer, Collector of Antiquities is emblazoned across the front in black ink, along with her number. You never thought you were going to call her, not in a million years.

You slide your phone out of the inside pocket of your jacket, snickering at how Jackson forgot to take it. He must have been distracted by the guy mauling your undies. Rookie mistake!

You dial Chloe’s number, your heart thumping as you wait for the call to connect.

“You’ve reached Chloe Frazer. If I don’t know you, give me a good reason to call you back. Go.”

There’s a beep.

“Oh, shit, okay.” Maybe you should have planned out what you wanted to say. Stammering, you introduce yourself. “We met about a month ago at the Indian Museum of Culture? You gave me your business card and told me to call you if I ever realised how much I could use your services. Well, you were right. I need your help. I’m completely in the shit here, so please, call me back.”

***

Sam’s feet pound into the sidewalk, his heartrate up high where he likes it. A morning jog isn’t as thrilling as being chased by mercenaries, but it does blow away all but the sturdiest of cobwebs.

He’d started running without a destination in mind, he just wanted to get out from under Nathan and Elena’s feet for a while. Maybe it’s only in his imagination, but he’s got to be imposing on their goodwill by now.

Without meaning to, he’s retracing the path down to the river, down to his brother’s business. It wasn’t called D&F Fortunes when he was here last, on that night when he flipped Nathan’s life upside down, but he’s drawn to the birthplace of his deceit all the same.

How could he have lied like that for so long? How did he keep a straight face, without cringing in shame? He must have been a different man then.

The air takes on a brackish quality as he reaches the river, and his footfalls change as he leaves the concrete for the wooden docks. He leans against the railing there to catch his breath, sweat cooling on his skin.

The sun glints off the water, calm and serene as if to counter the jittery nervousness under his own surface. He slides his phone out of his pocket and stares at the blank screen for a moment. Why does he feel so shifty? It’s like he’s snuck out of a sleepover to call his parents to bring him home.

Now he’s just being stupid.

He fiddles with his lighter, clicking it open and closed, as he waits for Victor to answer his phone. He’s braved the suburbs for too long, and his hands are restless without a cliff face to cling to. It’s time for a new job.

“Sam,” Victor says when he deigns to pick up at last, “what can I do for you?”

“I’m hoping you’ve got a job handy that you can send me on.”

“Well, shit. I’m all out, Nadine just took my last one.”

“You’re joking.”

“I felt like I owed her one, so I sent her to disrupt this smuggling job I heard about out in the Middle East. She seemed keen to get back out there.”

Well that’s just great. Sam fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one. “Good for her. I’m feeling that way myself.”

“Yeah? Trouble in paradise?”

“No, nothing like that. I just…”

“Feel out of place?”

“Yeah.”

“People like you and me, Sam, we don’t fit in so well in civilised society.”

People like them? Is this Sam’s future, to be a permanent bachelor? It would have its perks, sure, but it’s not much better than being tied down to a life of quiet desperation.

“Looks like I need to get back into uncivilised society, then,” he says.

"Well, if I hear of anything with your name on it, you’ll be the first to know.”

“All right, thanks any—oh, shit, I’ve got another call. See you later, Victor.”

“You stay out of trouble.”

After some repeated tapping of the screen (he’s still not used to these phones with no buttons), Sam manages to switch over to the new incoming call. It’s Chloe.

“Hey there, gorgeous. Just can’t stay away, can you?”

She chuckles. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna stop you right there, buttercup. I’ve got a job for you. I’d do it myself but I’m still tying up some loose ends over here.”

Hallelujah! He perks right up at that. “You’re an angel. What have you got for me?”

“Do you remember me meeting an archaeologist at the museum gala last month?” She reminds him of the name, but it doesn't mean much to him.

“I dunno, maybe. What was she wearing?”

“Men are all pigs.” She scoffs. “I don’t know what she was wearing. Oh, she had that assistant who was majorly tall, he towered over everyone else. Do you remember him?”

“Now that you mention it. Why? What about them?”

“Well, Majorly Tall just full on stabbed her in the back, stole all of her research and is now heading off to nab the treasure out from under her.”

She has him at ‘treasure.’ He’s a simple creature. “So, what? She needs someone to get to it first? I can do that.”

“Not so fast. She wants to be the one to discover it. She was quite adamant about that, actually, but she needs help. It looks like things might get violent. Listen, she’s a total virgin to this business and someone has to watch her back.”

He laughs. “You want me to watch her back, or deflower her?”

“You know what I mean, Sam.”

“So, I’m going to be babysitting some chick while probably getting shot at?” He hums, pretending to think it over. “Sure, sign me up.”

It’s her turn to laugh. “I haven’t even mentioned the pay yet.”

“I said sign me up.” He waves the subject away, even though she can’t see him. “Tell me about the treasure.”

“Ah, yes, this is the best part! She’s looking for Aphrodite’s magic girdle.”

There’s a beat before he answers. “Her what now?”

“She actually said ‘cestus,’ but apparently that means a kind of belt or girdle that women wore in ancient Greece.”

“Yeah… I’m gonna go with ‘cestus.’”

“Suit yourself. I’m going to keep saying ‘girdle.’ It’s funnier.”

“And it’s magic?”

“So she said. According to the myths, the girdle had the power to ensnare men.”

Not any myth Sam’s ever heard. Interesting. “And, uh, she’s not actually looking for a magical man-magnet, right?”

Chloe snorts. “No, no, I don’t think she’s that particular brand of crazy. There’s a physical representation of the girdle, made of precious metals and jewels. That’s what you’ll be looking for.”

“All right!” And then, because he can’t not ask, “So, what is she like? Is she hot?”

Chloe mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘pig.’

“What?”

“She’s a little young for you, tiger, but whatever floats your boat. So, officially, what should I tell her?”

“Tell her I’ll do it. Wait—” He flicks away his cigarette butt. “Where am I going?”

“How quickly can you get to Cyprus?”


	3. Chapter 3

You’re out of your mind, aren’t you?

You’re crammed into a tetanus-ridden economy seat, sandwiched between the other passengers, your knees bumping the seat in front of you. It’s a rickety plane from an airline you’ve never heard of, but it’s all you could afford last minute. Your poor bank account.

You shrivel into your oversized hoodie as much as you can, keeping the hood pulled up and your head down. It’s the best you could do for a disguise.

Will Jackson really kill you if he sees you? He seemed pretty serious yesterday in your apartment, but he’s never been violent before. Maybe he was just trying to scare you. Or maybe this Richard Clemens character is more dangerous than you first thought.

Your eyes dart around the plane, checking out the other passengers while trying not to move and draw attention to yourself. Anyone could be a threat. Couldn’t they? Are you being too paranoid?

No one pays you any mind, preoccupied with their own discomforts, and how would you spot if someone was acting suspicious, anyway? You’re out of your depth. You should have stayed at home.

The baby in the row behind you starts up screaming again, making the muscles in your right eye twitch. It’ll fall asleep and be quiet before you land in Cyprus, won’t it?

There’s still a good ten hours left of your flight, and your butt’s already gone to sleep beneath you. Maybe you should have stayed home, but there’s no going back now. It’s not like you can afford a return trip.

You suffer in silence, almost nodding off several times before snapping awake again, gripped by anxiety. At long last, you depart the plane sore, sleep deprived, and jetlagged.

Cyprus is a beautiful island, especially this time of year, but it can fuck right off for a while. You need some sleep.

There’s a head-splitter pulsing behind your eyes when you get to your hotel, a shabby little place that you hope counts as ‘off the radar,’ and you check in under a false name.

The walls of your room are an uninspired magnolia, and the beige carpet sounds rough beneath the soles of your shoes. There’s a double bed, a wobbly desk, and a door that leads to the bathroom. That’s it.

You heft your case onto the table and collapse onto the bed. Kicking off your shoes, you take out your phone, setting an alarm for four hours from now. You’re meeting this Samuel Drake at 6pm and you want to at least shower first.

With that, you’re out like a light.

“Huh? What?” Your eyes snap open at the tone of your alarm.

No way, it’s been five minutes at most.

You swipe the alarm away and groan, rubbing your sore eyes. Somehow you feel even worse than before you slept. What year is it?

That’ll have to tide you over until tonight.

You roll off the bed and slump your way into the bathroom, yawning and only just prying your eyes open again after every blink. You undress and climb into the shower, happy at least to wash the smell of the plane off of you.

The cool water wakes you up some, and the more you come around, the more your stomach twists into knots. This is happening, isn’t it? You’re going to go down to the bar and meet someone who raids tombs for a living. This is not how you pictured your career going.

What will Sam Drake be like? Chloe Frazer described him as ‘the perfect guy for the job,’ but what does that mean? How far down the sliding scale of morality does he sit?

Clean and anxious, you climb out of the shower and wrap yourself up in a towel. Back in the bedroom, you flip open your suitcase to comb through your clothes. What should you wear?

Which of your boring and practical outfits would make someone the most sympathetic to your cause? There’s not much in it, so you pick out some comfy pants and a dark t-shirt that won’t show it if you sweat under pressure. You slip into some flip-flops and sunglasses, and your tourist disguise is complete.

Shouldn’t you do your hair and makeup? You want to make a good impression on this guy Drake, but even your bones are tired. Oh, well. It’s not like you’re here to flirt.

You leave your room and head to the elevator, descending to the hotel bar.

The bar is a couple degrees less dingy than the rest of the building you’ve seen so far, with warm terracotta walls and smooth grey tiles paving the floor. There are several other patrons; a middle-aged couple sitting together at the bar, and a few tourists gather around the tables. They talk and laugh, filling the room with a relaxed atmosphere.

It doesn’t look like Jackson has found you yet. Your shoulders loosen.

You order a drink and take a seat at a table for two by the window. The dark wooden table and chairs are unsteady, but clean, and you settle in to wait for this mysterious Mr Drake.

You slide your sunglasses off and check your phone, making sure for the hundredth time that you’ve blocked your location, and it takes all of your self-control to not allow your leg to bounce.

What are you doing here? You should have stayed at home. This is crazy. This isn’t you.

A man, probably in his forties, enters the bar and orders a beer. He’s wearing the most ridiculous Hawaiian shirt you’ve ever seen.

You snicker to yourself. Someone call the fashion police. No way is this the guy you’re waiting for.

He turns to survey the room when he gets his beer, and his eyes meet yours.

Did he hear you laugh? You flush, sweating, your damp hair sticking to the back of your neck, and you glance away.

He’s coming over to your table.

Crap.

He calls your name when reaches you, a lopsided smile on his lips. “Our mutual friend Ms Frazer sent me.”

“Mr Drake?” you splutter, recognising him at last. He was at the gala with Chloe, but you never spoke two words to him, and until now you hadn’t even connected the name and the face. He dressed much better then, too.

“Call me Sam.” He takes the seat opposite you.

So, this is the guy. He seems normal enough, awful fashion sense aside. Were you expecting someone more glamourous? The important thing is, he looks like he’ll be able to keep you safe on this endeavour. He’s strong and lean, and he’s seen some scuffles; though not bad to look at, he has the face of a man who has been through some shit. There are some serious bags under his hazel eyes, and there’s a scar on his left temple. The ratchet prison tattoo on his neck brings the whole image together nicely.

Nicely enough that when you notice him checking you out in much the same way, you wish you’d gone to the trouble of putting on some makeup. He must think you’re a frazzled mess. He wouldn’t be wrong.

Not here to flirt, remember? You’re here on business.

“I almost didn’t recognise you,” you say, attempting to break the ice. “The tourist disguise is spot on.”

He tilts his head. “What tourist disguise?”

“The shirt.” You gesture towards him.

He looks down at himself and then back at you in confusion. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”

Oh, wow. Okay. It’s a look.

You cringe. “It’s nothing. Actually, I hear Hawaiian shirts are making a comeback.”

Nope, can’t seem to stop talking.

He stares you down for a couple seconds, before breaking into laughter. You blink at him, unsure, your face heating. Have you embarrassed yourself already?

He finishes chuckling. “I’m just messing with you. Chloe said you’d be nervous.”

You laugh in relief, though still a little stung from the joke. “She was right. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He smiles at you, warm and soft. “Well, relax, all right? That’s why I’m here.”

You can’t help but smile in return, the pink in your cheeks taking on new meaning. Even with the faint aroma of cigarette smoke, he’s pretty handsome, in an unusual, rugged kind of way—though you’d much prefer him without the terrible shirt.

So to speak.

“So, um,” you begin, trying to get your head back in the game. “How much did Chloe tell you?”

He looks up at the ceiling as he thinks back. “She said you’re looking for Aphrodite’s magic cestus, which I didn’t even know was a thing.”

“It’s no golden fleece, I’ll grant you.” But it’s amazing how this topic can put you at ease in an instant.

“I hear that. So, this was something Aphrodite wore, like a belt?”

“Yes, handcrafted by her husband Hephaestus, depending on your preferred source.”

“He was the god’s blacksmith, right?”

“You know your Greek mythology.” You smile, surprised.

He shrugs. “It’s really not my forte, but I had plenty of time to brush up on the gods and goddesses during the flight here.”

Hopefully he had a better flight than you did. Politeness almost forces you to enquire about it, but he speaks again before you can, saving you both from the mundanity of small talk.

“I have a question, actually. Why would Hephaestus make something for his wife that made her totally irresistible to other men?”

“A reasonable question.” You chuckle. “Certain stories make sure to mention how the cestus accentuated Aphrodite’s breasts, so it seems men have obsessed over women’s chests since time immemorial.”

He laughs along with you. “I can believe that.”

Did his eyes just go where you think they did? Men really are all pigs, aren’t they?

***

She clears her throat, and Sam meets her eyes again, having just noticed a weirdly shaped stain on the front of her t-shirt. And she had the nerve to make fun of his clothes!

Oh, hell. She thinks he was staring at her chest, doesn’t she? There goes that good impression he was trying to make.

Before he can set things straight though, she’s moving on.

“Should we be talking about money?” she says.

“If you really want to. I mostly just play for sport, these days.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe.”

“Trust me, you’d find it even harder to believe if you knew me a little while ago.”

She smiles at him ruefully then, like maybe she’s misjudged him. “What do you say to splitting the finder’s fee fifty-fifty?”

“I say let’s shake on it.” He holds out his hand for her to take.

She does, her palm soft and small against his, but her shake firm. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Yet.”

“Yet.” She lights up when she laughs, her already pretty face gaining some much-needed warmth to balance the jetlag. “We’ll need a plan of attack for tomorrow.”

“Yes. Where are we going?”

“The ruins of the Temple of Aphrodite are right here in Paphos, and that’s really the only place to start. My theory is that there’s a crypt under there, used by the Cult of Aphrodite for their secret meetings.”

“Cults and secret meetings? This gets better and better.”

“I agree.” She grins. “If I’m right, there’ll be a statue down there, wearing the cestus.”

“And how did you arrive at your theory?” He might not understand everything she says once she starts citing sources, but she’s got one of those voices that could read the phonebook and make it sound interesting.

Are phonebooks still a thing?

She leans forward, drawing him into her world. “There are encoded letters of correspondence between members of the cult, talking about their ‘greatest treasure, borne on an idol beneath Her home in Paphos.’”

He’s gone much further for much less. “So, how come you’ve not found it already?”

“I never had the funding. To go digging around a historical site like this, you need all kinds of approval from all kinds of people. Not to mention concrete proof. My hunch was never enough.”

“And now?”

There’s a look in her eye that he recognises like an old enemy. “Now I just don’t give a damn. They’ll get over some unauthorised digging when they’ve got Aphrodite’s cestus in their hands.”

There’s a fire in her, beneath the fidgety academia. He’s going to enjoy working with her. “I’m impressed you never gave up,” he says. “Most people would, in your position.”

“No way. I’ve put my entire adult life into this. My reputation is in the gutter because of this. To have it taken from me, I… If I don’t see this through to the end, then I’ll have nothing.”

Well, shit. There’s a lot to unpack there, but that’s not what she hired him for. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you find it first. This is exactly what I’m good at.”

“Thank you.” Her earnest expression tugs at his heartstrings.

“Thank me when we find the treasure.”

She shakes her head. “No, I mean it. My last assistant—I mean, partner—well, it didn’t go so well, did it?”

“Just don’t start thinking of me as your butler, and we’ll be fine.” He winks, grinning at her bashful expression.

“That sounds fair.”

He drains his beer, ready for a smoke. “All right, you should go get some shut-eye. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

She nods and stifles a yawn as if on cue. Her scrunched-up face is cute. “I could really go for a small coma right now,” she says.

“Oh, I know that feeling.” He laughs softly. “I’ll meet you in the dining room for breakfast at around eight? Then we can head out.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.” She stands and stretches, then holds out her hand. “It’s been great meeting you. I have such a good feeling about this.”

High praise indeed. He shakes her hand again. “The pleasure is all mine. Now, go get some sleep.”

He watches her leave, his eyes dipping lower than is appropriate, before he reigns himself in. Not going there. He’s a professional.

But, hey, once he’s finished the job, he’s a free agent. If only she wasn’t practically half his age. Man, he feels old.

He heads out of the bar and into the sticky night air. Tomorrow is going to be great. He can’t wait to get back out there in the field, even if it’s likely to be a lot tamer than he’s used to. It could even be good for him to have a nice, gentle adventure for a change.

There’s always the threat of the ex-partner to spice things up, but he’s not too worried about some bookish historian. If he’s anything like the partner he screwed over, he won’t be an issue.

That’s not a dig at her, but her hands are those of a woman that types on a computer for a living. It would surprise him if she’s ever thrown a punch, never mind fired a gun.

Will he need a gun tomorrow? He’s going to bring one anyway, even if he won’t have to use it.

He laughs a little to himself, lighting up a cigarette. She would shit herself if she heard a gun go off.

He can’t deny it, it would be a fun for something to go wrong tomorrow, just to have a little excitement. Is this what a midlife crisis feels like?

Speaking of midlife crises, he checks his phone for messages from Victor. The old geezer flew him out here, and he’d hinted he might stick around for a while to soak up some Mediterranean sun.

There’s one unread message.

_Decided on staying in Paphos for now. Let me know when you’re all wrapped up and we’ll go drinking. I know a place._

These next few days should be interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

You looked like the risen dead when you stumbled in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, but after some damage-controlling hair and makeup, you’re much more presentable. With a spritz of setting spray to stop your makeup from sweating right off your face in the scorching sun, you’re ready to greet the day.

And Sam.

Did you just spend a half hour prettying yourself up for him? No, that would be silly. It’s for Aphrodite, of course. Who wouldn’t want to look their best when they visit the home of the goddess of beauty?

You head out of your room, down the stairs and into the dining room. The tables have been set for breakfast, with a greasy smelling buffet table along one wall.

Sam’s sipping coffee in the corner, sporting a dapper blue Hawaiian shirt. How many of those does he own?

You approach him, butterflies between your ribs. Today’s the day!

“Good morning,” you say, sitting opposite him.

He looks up from his coffee and grins. “Good morning yourself. How did you sleep?”

“Like a log.” You pour yourself a drink from the pot. “I didn’t think I’d be able to; I thought I’d be too nervous.”

“I told you, relax. I’ve got your back.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m still too excited to eat.”

A couple comes back from the buffet with their plates piled high, and your stomach turns over in disinterest. You’d have to be a special type of hungover to suffer the food here.

Sam follows your gaze and pulls a face. “Yeah, uh, I know exactly what you mean.”

You giggle, pulled in by his conspiratorial tone. Business first, though. “I thought we could take the bus to the temple. There’s one that hits all the tourist traps.”

He shakes his head. “The bus? I rented us a car.”

“You did?”

“Professional here, kid.” He points to himself with his thumb. “Give me some credit, please.”

You roll your eyes. “You are not old enough to be calling me ‘kid.’”

Are you flirting with him? Stop it.

“Hey, I’m forty-two. Pretty sure that makes you a kid to me.”

That’s no good. Is that how he sees you, as a child? “How old do you think I am? Out of curiosity.”

He squints at you. “Isn’t this one of those questions you’re never supposed to ask?”

“It’s fine, just guess!” You can’t help yourself, can you?

“I don’t know. Twenty-five?”

Oh. You were hoping he’d be off by a few more years, so you could surprise him with how much older you are, thus closing the perceived age gap. Maybe you don’t look as young as you thought... “Almost. I’m twenty-eight.”

“Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.” He clears his throat and goes back to his coffee.

You cringe to yourself. Why do you even care what he thinks of you? You met the guy yesterday, and you know nothing about him. Remember why you’re here—the only thing that matters is whether you can trust him.

Will he lead you into danger? Will he betray you?

He seems to be on your side so far. That he’s your absolute last chance helps a little to foster trust.

“So, tell me about this temple we’re going to.”

You’re grateful to be back on solid conversational ground. “There’s not much still standing, truth be told, just two beautiful arches.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“There are the ruins of the old city of Palaipaphos, too.”

He sits up straighter. “A ruined city?”

“We’re talking crumbled walls and unrecognisable structures, but yes.”

“Huh.” He slumps a little.

“You won’t be disappointed when you see it. The stonework is gorgeous, you can really feel how much love and veneration the masons put into the building.”

There’s a soft warmth in his eyes as he gazes at you. “Well, when you put it like that, I can’t wait to see it.”

You look down into your coffee cup, fiddling with a packet of sugar. This is what you’d hoped for, when you pleaded your case to the university funding committee; someone to share in your excitement, even just a bit.

For the first time since he betrayed you, you have something other than anger towards Jackson. Maybe you did treat him as nothing more than a lapdog. You never let him in, never saw him as an equal, until your friendship festered like a wound. He stuck by you when no one else did for a while... even if he did have an ulterior motive.

You won’t repeat your mistakes here.

“Are you ready to go?” Sam says, putting an unlit cigarette between his lips.

“Yes!” you say, springing to your feet, the butterflies in your belly morphing into great flapping birds.

You leave the hotel together and walk around to the parking lot, Sam lighting his cigarette as you go. Somehow, the smoke doesn’t seem so acrid when it’s coming from his mouth.

“This is the car I rented.” He leads you to a tan coloured jeep.

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you planning some off-roading?”

“I’m prepared for anything. It’s even got a winch.” Without warning, he tosses you the keys. “I assume you’ll want to drive?”

It takes both hands, but you catch the keys without dropping them and embarrassing yourself. You unlock the car and climb into the driver’s side. “Do you have the map?”

“Of course.” He waves a folded-up map at you as he slams the jeep door shut.

“So, you’re a paper person, huh?”

He grins. “You don’t know how many phones I’ve smashed.”

“I hope you treat your partners with more care.”

He considers you for a moment. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

You play around with the rear-view mirror, hiding your pleased smile. “Where to?”

He lays the map out on his lap. “So, we are… here,” he says, pointing. “And the temple is over there. You want to take a left out of here and then a right.”

“Got it.” You start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, the morning sun beating down on you through the open sunroof.

You can’t wait to see the temple again. It’s been years since you last took a trip out here, but you’re ready to fall in love with Aphrodite all over again.

***

“And we’re here!” she chirps, turning the engine off and hopping out of the car. Does she even remember to lock it again after Sam climbs out?

He catches up to her at a more reasonable pace. “Someone’s excited.”

“Aren’t you? Look at this place, it’s incredible!” She grins at him, then winds her way through the other early bird tourists until she’s standing in the shadow of the enormous stone columns.

The skeletal remains of Aphrodite’s temple have that maudlin beauty of what once was. It’s like the past is a tangible thing here, an impossible number of years stretching back into antiquity, when the temple was the beating heart of its community.

He joins her in line and she pays the entry fee. They step through the gates and into Old Paphos.

He whistles. “I know you told me already, but… it’s a lot more rubble-like than I imagined.”

“And what’s worse is that most of the more-intact structures were added in the middle ages, a thousand years after the cult abandoned this place.”

It’s hard to grasp the passing of that much time; Libertalia and the Hoysala Empire were positively modern by comparison. They’ll be lucky to find anything at all after millennia, but he doesn’t want to dampen her spirits.

“It’s going to make it hard to find this secret crypt,” he says. “It could have been built over.”

“It almost certainly was. But that’s what you’re here for, right?”

“Right.” No pressure. “You want to give me the history lesson while we have a look around?”

“Okay. I’ll save you my gushing over the architecture. Come on.” She leads him between the towering columns, bleached white by thousands of years of sunlight. “The Cult of Aphrodite built the temple as a sanctuary in fifteen hundred B.C., but people came here to worship her long before then. There have been relics and coins bearing her image found here dated around thirty-eight hundred B.C.”

“Why here? What is it about this place?”

“Paphos is Aphrodite’s birthplace, depending on which origin story you subscribe to.” She grins at him wickedly. “She came from Uranus’ severed genitals.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Cronus chopped them off and threw them into the ocean where they, uh, fertilised the sea foam and created Aphrodite,” she says like she’s telling him about the weather. “That’s what her name means: she ‘rose from the foam.’”

“No shit.”

The ocean isn’t far, the air is salty with it, and gulls screech on high. It’s easy to imagine, here in this ancient, enthralling land, that a goddess of beauty and love might come ashore, born from the sea itself.

She laughs. “I’d say you can’t make this stuff up, but…”

“So, Aphrodite’s Cyprian? I thought she was Greek.”

“The ancient Greek world and its influence spanned far beyond modern day Greece. Before the Roman Emperor, Theodosius the Great, outlawed paganism in the fourth century, different cultures shared the worship of many gods and goddesses.”

That seems logical enough. She’s so smart, she could tell him anything and he’d believe it.

A little way off, apart from the milling tourists and obscured by a collapsed stone wall, is a sign cordoned off by ropes. “What’s that over there?” Sam says, pointing.

“That wasn’t there the last time I was here.” She moves closer to read the sign, written in what Sam assumes is Cypriot Greek. “Warning! Unstable ground.” She turns to him, eagerness in her eyes. “You don’t think—?”

“Please don’t get too close, ma’am.” A security guard appears at her side. “It’s not safe here, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“What happened?” She steps away, and Sam’s there to back her up.

“There was a cave in, one of the walls collapsed straight through the ground. The whole area over there is unstable now. Seems there’s a cave or something down there.”

She’s almost buzzing with excitement. “Has anyone explored it yet?”

“I don’t think so. If you want to know something else, ask one of the tour guides. I better get back to my post.”

“Thank you for your help.” She waits for him to leave, then turns back to Sam, beaming. “Did you hear that? This could be it!”

“We lucked out. Mother Nature did our excavating for us.”

“Is this fate or what? It’s like Aphrodite’s helping us.”

It’s hard to disagree with her when she’s full of bouncing energy. He can’t help but laugh along with her, but he sobers when two newcomers pass through the ticket gate.

“Don’t turn around,” he tells her. “Describe your ex-partner to me.”

She blinks up at him. “Jackson? Why?”

“Just do it.” Then remembering manners, “Please.”

“He’s at least six-foot-five, he’s got this ridiculous long, shiny brown hair, he’s in his mid-thirties—”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s standing right over there.”

“What?” She’s about to whip her head around to look, but Sam catches her by the shoulders.

“Don’t turn around! He hasn’t spotted you yet and we want to keep it that way, all right?”

She nods dumbly, looking away. She’s staring at his left hand where it rests on her shoulder. Is he in her personal space? He lets her go.

“What do we do?” she whispers. “He said he’d kill me if he saw me.”

Did he? He doesn’t look the type.

“Relax, breathe,” Sam says. “Keep close to me and we’ll keep playing tourist. Who’s the old guy with him?”

“I don’t know. I’m not allowed to turn around, remember?” There’s that fire again.

“He’s old, sixties, maybe. White hair, glasses, dressed kind of smart.”

She shrugs. “That’s kind of broad. I’d have to see him to be sure.”

“Right. Come with me.” He leads her towards a group of sightseers, melding into the crowd with her sandwiched to his side. “They won’t see you from here, so go ahead and look.”

She takes his arm, unwilling to be jostled away from him. Not so protective of her personal space after all. It’s been a long time since he’s had a pretty young thing on his arm.

She glances around, finding Jackson in all his socks-and-sandals glory, talking to his older companion. Her expression hardens.

“That’s Richard Clemens,” she murmurs. “He deals in ill-gotten gains. I guess he wants to sell the cestus to the highest bidder.”

“I’ve heard of him. He’s bad news.” Now things are getting interesting. As fascinating as ancient Greek lore is, it’s the chase that he lives for.

She tugs on his shirt, pleading with her eyes. “Sam, we can’t let him have it. We can’t.”

How’s a guy supposed to say no to that? “Stay here, blend in. I’m going to go see if I can’t eavesdrop on their little conversation.”

“What? Don’t go—”

He extricates himself from her grip, strolling from the group and taking out his phone, making a show of taking photographs of the Corinthian pillars. Or are they Ionic? He should ask her later. He edges closer to her adversaries until he can hear their hushed voices.

“Have you seen? The cave in?” Jackson says, gesturing towards the cordoned off section of the ruins.

“Yes,” Clemens replies. “It should save me some dynamite.”

“Dynamite? You’re not serious.”

“Why not? This place is a dump, a few detonations will make no difference.”

Jackson fidgets. “But the cultural significance—”

“Isn’t why we’re here. We’ll come back, say two or three in the morning, and I’ll get you down into that crypt one way or another.”

The game is on. Sam slinks back to his new partner, just as she’s taking a photo for some old couple in front of one of the columns. They take their camera back and trundle off, and she turns to him.

“Well? What did you hear?”

“They’re coming back tonight to break into the crypt. We should leave before you’re spotted.” He leads the way back to the car.

She clasps his wrist, following him like a puppy. “Tonight? What are we going to do? Do you have a plan?”

“I’m thinking.” He waits for her to unlock the jeep before getting in.

“Yeah? Well, I’m panicking.” She buckles her seatbelt.

“I’m going to say it again: relax. Not my first rodeo, darlin’.”

She huffs, starting the car and pulling away from the temple. She’s tense as fuck, her knuckles white on the wheel and her shoulders straight as a rod.

He’s on the other end of the scale. Excitement zings in his blood. Anticipation tingles in his fingertips.

It’s a shame this will be such an open and shut case.


	5. Chapter 5

You’re in a small café down the road from your hotel, picking at your plate. Sam sits opposite you, wolfing down his gyro with sickening gusto. You turn your nose up at him and continue nursing your soda, your leg bouncing under the table.

“Okay, I’ve given you a reasonable amount of time,” you say. “What’s your plan?”

He licks his fingers clean one by one before answering. “It’s been like a half hour.”

“Sam! Plan!”

He laughs, the bastard. You could really go off the male species. Maybe you should become a nun and live in a cloister.

“Will you calm down?” He chugs the rest of his lemonade. “Hey, are you going to eat that?”

You push your plate towards him. “I promise to calm down the moment you tell me you have a plan.”

“I have a plan,” he says, then digs in to your souvlaki.

You give him a moment. Two moments. Three…

“Well?” you hiss. “What is it?”

“You see? Now that—” He points to you with a piece of pitta bread. “—is not the face of a calm person.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to make me flip out.” You drop your head into your hands and groan.

You can’t believe you were attracted to this man an hour ago. No more will you think about how strong his hands were against your shoulders!

He takes pity on you at last. “All right, all right. I’m sorry.” There’s an undercurrent of laughter beneath his words, making it hard to take his apology seriously. “I’m thinking I go back out there tonight, drop in on the crypt, swipe the cestus and get out of there before Jackson and Clemens even arrive.”

You lift your head to frown at him. “That’s not going to work.”

“Of course it will. Trust me, I’m very sneaky.”

“I don’t doubt that, but that’s not what I mean. The cestus is my discovery. I need to be the one to find it.”

He sighs. “You know what? You’re right.”

“Maybe we should just call the police. I know for a fact that Richard Clemens is a wanted criminal.”

Sam’s mouth quirks as if he’s going to laugh at you again. “Oh, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. I’m just trying to help.”

“Listen.” He pushes his plate aside and wipes his face with a napkin. “Getting the cops involved is the last thing we want to do right now.”

“Why? We know where he’s going to be and what time he’s going to be there.”

“Right. But even if the cops actually detain this guy—which they won’t—then we’ve got police crawling all over the temple. You want some rookie officer to stumble into the crypt and make the discovery of the century?”

No, you don’t want that. He’s got a point. “You really don’t think they’d arrest him?”

“Hell no. Clemens has Fuck You money. You think he’d spend a night in a jail cell?”

“Fine. You’re right.” You drum your fingers on the tabletop. “What do we do, then?”

“Okay, new plan.” He offers you a placating smile. “It’s the same as the first one, but you’ll come too. How does that sound?”

If he’d asked you a week ago, you’d have called him crazy. You, sneak into a guarded historical site? But things are different now. You’re different. You’re trying to be, anyway.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you respond. “Sounds good, let’s do it.”

“Attagirl.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, and you glow inside from the praise.

It’s a shame your partnership will be so short; it would have been great to get to know each other better, maybe explore this ill-fated crush some more. If he’ll let you take him out for a drink when this is over, perhaps you could let this thing run its course. And hey, if not, at least you’ll have the discovery of Aphrodite’s cestus to your name.

The next twelve hours crawl by, with your nerves winding tighter and tighter with every tick of the clock.

During this time, you change clothes half a dozen times, unsure what constitutes proper attire for crypt raiding. After deciding on something dark and easy to run in, you lie back on your bed with your phone.

When you try to access your email to retrieve the cult letters, and other things Jackson has forwarded to you over the last couple years, you find yourself locked out of the account. Great.

You remember the rack of pamphlets by the front desk, and take a wander downstairs to rifle through them. Something, anything to keep your mind focussed.

Back in your room, you settle into the spindly desk chair and spread out the leaflets for the temple and nearby museum. You soak in the made-for-tourists rhetoric and let it gently prod at your memories, immersing yourself in the comfort that Aphrodite’s arms have always provided.

At midnight, there’s a knock at your door.

It’s Sam, and he’s ditched his previous garish shirt for a tight-fitting black tee with long sleeves. Your hungry eyes can’t decide where to linger, whether on his muscular arms or the broad expanse of his chest.

Neither! Business before pleasure!

He cocks his eyebrow at you cheekily. “You going to invite me in, or what?”

You roll your eyes and move aside. “Come on in.”

He steps over the threshold and into your room, casting his eyes about like he’s casing the joint for a robbery.

“Oh!” You lurch for your suitcase where it lies open on the bed, snapping it shut, hopefully before he gets an eyeful of your oh-so-practical panties.

What is it with everyone seeing your underwear recently?

He looks at you, bemused, before going over to the window and peeking between the curtains. He wears a leather holster on the back of his waistband and it’s not empty; a clunky, metallic pistol is tucked away there.

“Why do you have a gun?” You can’t help the unease in your voice. You’ve seen more guns in the last few days than in the rest of your life all together.

He glances at you over his shoulder. “In case I need to shoot someone.”

He’s joking, right? He must be. Oh, god, what if he’s serious?

“Do you find yourself needing to shoot people often?” You aim for casual, but miss the target by a mile.

“More than you’d think.” He turns to you, his eyes widening at your concerned expression. “What do you think you hired me to do?”

“I, um…” Damn. Someone could get shot tonight. Are you okay with that?

You could call everything off right now.

And let Jackson win? Let Clemens make money from your hard work, only for Aphrodite’s cestus—one of the lost wonders of the Greek world—to languish in some millionaire’s collection?

You can’t do that. Some things are worth a little violence.

His face softens and he crosses the room to stand before you, planting his hands on your shoulders just like he did earlier. “I’m here to keep you safe, remember? I’ll be right there with you the whole time, so you don’t have to worry about that asshole Jackson or his buddy Clemens.” His voice and his touch ground you, soothing your jitters.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before.” You manage a small smile for him, and his face brightens in return.

He’s still so close. You could just lean up on your toes and kiss him, if you wanted to.

You back away, from him and the intrusive thought. You’ve got enough going on tonight without kissing this man you barely know.

After tonight, though? You’re game if he is.

***

Sam hops into the jeep, and she drives them back to Aphrodite’s temple. She parks them in the lot of a nearby convenience store, and they climb out into the cool night air. They should have a couple hours before Jackson and Clemens show up to pull the rug out from under their feet.

He catches her eye as she comes around the car to meet him. “You okay?” he murmurs.

She swallows. Nods brusquely, but says nothing.

He steps over to her and tips her chin up with a crooked finger. “Hey, don’t worry. You leave everything to me, remember? I’ll get you that cestus.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up in a tiny smile. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

They hurry the short distance to the temple and circle around the perimeter of the ruins. She keeps up with him well, lighter and more graceful on her feet than he’d expected. This will go easier if she’s not tripping over herself, although it might have been funny to watch her stumble.

Under cover of darkness the remnants of the temple take on an eerie elegance, the stone pale as bone in the moonlight. Members of an ancient cult sneaked out here for their clandestine meetings. They're following in their footsteps, over a thousand years later, but underneath the very same moon.

“This way,” he says quietly, “there’s a lot of cover over here to hide behind.”

“Right,” she whispers, her face resolute.

He leads her through the ruins of Old Paphos from memory, and she sticks to him like a shadow. There’s a nightguard wandering the vicinity, the beam of his flashlight bobbing between the dilapidated dwellings, and Sam steers them well away from him.

He crawls under a collapsed arch, emerging out the other side and waiting for her to come through after him. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she breathes, accepting his help in getting to her feet.

“You sure?”

“It’s this way, come on.” She sidesteps him and vaults over a low wall, unassisted.

He’d whistle if it wouldn’t give away their position. She’s going to give him trouble, isn’t she?

He follows her, the two of them slinking around rubble and winding their way towards the roped-off site of the cave in.

A guard prowls nearby, his footsteps crunching in the dirt.

Sam holds out a hand to still her, and she freezes, ducked behind a broken pillar.

“Wait for him to pass,” he murmurs.

She nods, holding her breath as the guard patrols between the pillars, his handgun drawn.

It’s not right.

When the security guard passes them by and continues on his rounds, Sam turns back to her. “Do the guards here usually carry guns?”

“No, they’re employed by the city. Do you think they’re onto us, or something?”

“Or something.” Damn. He should have noticed right away that the ‘guards’ aren’t in uniform.

This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Something to spice up this easy job. But now that he’s here, with her counting on him, it’s suddenly a lot more daunting than it is exciting.

He’s a fucking idiot. They need to get this done quickly.

There’s a flat expanse of sandy dirt between them and the cave in. No cover. It’s risky but it’s not far, and there’s no one around.

He beckons her to follow him and they scurry across the gap like mice. When they reach the ropes, he holds them up, pulling them taut for her to crawl under. “After you, dear.”

“Thanks.” She wriggles underneath the ropes on her belly through the dirt, straightening up on the other side and dusting herself off. It’s refreshing to see a scholar who doesn’t mind getting all dirty.

There’s movement behind her, a flashlight clicking to life.

“Look out!”

She whirls around, finding herself staring down the barrel of a gun. Son of a bitch must have been lying in wait.

Sam launches himself over the ropes, latching himself around the fake-guard’s neck before the fool can even think of pulling the trigger. He chokes him, dragging him down until his neck breaks with a sick snap.

She stands there, frozen like the marble statues she studies. “Is he… dead?”

He can’t meet her terrified eyes. “We need to keep going,” he says lowly.

She doesn’t move. “You killed him.”

“Well, yeah. Come on, we can’t stay out here in the open.”

They haven’t gone unnoticed—heavy footsteps approach from the darkness. Why won’t she move? She’ll get herself killed.

No, it’s all his fault, not hers.

He groans, drawing his gun. If she can’t move, then he’ll just have to defend her from here.

Another sentry rushes them, this one armed to the teeth as well. His flashlight focusses on them like a spotlight. “Hands up!” he growls.

As if, buddy.

Sam shoulders her out of the way, startling her from her fugue enough for her to turn and run further into the ruins, towards the broken area of ground they’ve been searching for.

He’s a quicker shot than the not-nightwatchman, and with a few squeezes of the trigger, the goon is a crumpled, bloody heap on the sacred ground.

But there are more men coming, and his charge has disappeared into the dark. Everything is screwed up.

She squeals, shrill and too far away, like she’s under the earth. The sound wounds him worse than any physical pain he was expecting to feel tonight.

He calls out to her, but there’s no response.

Shit.

He chases her voice, mind empty but for the need to save her, bounding around the corner of a collapsed wall—

—only to be smacked in the face with the waiting butt of a rifle. Dazed, he falls to his knees, and with a boot to the back of the head, it’s lights out.

When he comes to, he’s kneeling in the dirt, his hands bound behind his back. Armed mercs flank him on either side, and one of his eyes is swollen shut, so it’s with some difficulty that he surveys his surroundings.

He’s underground—the taste of crypt air is unmistakeable. Floodlights have been set up at regular intervals, illuminating the mounds of rubble that fill the collapsed antechamber, with thick black cables laying like vipers connected to an old genny in the corner.

She sits propped against a crumbling heap of masonry, her head lolling onto her chest, her hands also bound.

She’s not moving, but she doesn’t look hurt. Maybe… maybe she’s okay.

There! Her eyelids are twitching! Unless it’s a trick of the light.

He calls her name. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

She groans in response, squinting in the artificial light as she slowly comes around. “Sam?” she croaks when her eyes focus.

“Oh, thank god.” He laughs, jubilant. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

“Well, isn’t this touching?” Richard Clemens emerges from the shadows, looking smug. He approaches her and crouches in front of her. She tries to inch away from him, failing and slumping against the rock again.

“Hey, back off, asshole!” Sam strains against his bonds, but he’s held still by the men at his sides.

“Are you going to kill us?” she whispers, her eyes blown wide.

Clemens chuckles. “Not if I don’t have to, my dear. Your friend on the other hand…” He turns his attention to Sam, and the bastard on his right kicks him in the back, punting him forwards. “He killed two of my men. I’m not known for my forgiving nature.”

Being face down on the ground, Sam can’t see her face, but he can hear the fear in her voice. “Don’t hurt him, please!” she cries. “He only k-killed those people to save me. It’s my fault they’re dead. It’s my fault he’s here in the first place.”

Oh, no, honey. She doesn’t really think that, does she?

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Clemens says, standing and crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me where I can find Aphrodite’s treasure, and I’ll let you both walk out of here unscathed.”

“You call this unscathed?” Sam groans, rolling himself over so his face isn’t pressed into the dirt.

“Not talking to you.” Clemens regards Sam how he might something nasty on the bottom of his Italian shoes.

“What do you mean?” she says. “The cestus isn’t here?”

“It seems that way. Your old partner Jackson Ramsey is in the inner chamber now, looking for clues. He’s proving decidedly useless, which is where you come in; I’m going to take you down there and you’re going to tell me what you know. Understood?”

Damn that scumbag. And damn that traitor Jackson, too.

“I understand.” She hangs her head.

Some nameless goon hauls her to her feet, and she moans in pain as her bound arms twist.

Sam writhes against his bonds. “Don’t you dare hurt her, you bastard!”

“I’ll take your feelings under consideration, Mr Drake.” Clemens smirks, following his henchman and their captive deeper into the underground cavern.

Fuck. How did it all go this wrong? He’ll never forgive himself if she gets hurt.

He grunts in pain as one of the thugs grinds his boot into his chest, possibly bruising a rib. Son of a bitch.

“Hey, let up a little, fellas, huh? Unscathed, remember?” He goes for his usual charming-but-actually-annoying. Oftentimes the best thing to do is stay quiet, but he can’t help it, he’s not wired that way.

“God, do you ever shut up?” says the thug, but he removes his foot from Sam’s chest.

“Occasionally.” Sam shrugs, or tries to, with his arms tied as they are.

Judging by the blood on his rifle’s butt, this is the asshole that wiped him out earlier. Sam will have to think of a way to pay him back for that one later.

He never should have brought her out here tonight. It was much too dangerous. He should have…

No, she’d never stand to be left behind. This is too important to her. She can make her own decisions and mistakes.

Like hiring him, for example.

“So, what did you guys do with the regular guards?” he asks.

“Killed them all,” the thug answers easily. “Boss told us to keep an eye out for the girl. Almost got past us, there.”

“Almost.”

At least Sam can tell her that the guy he killed in front of her wasn’t some innocent guy just doing his job. Her face when she heard his neck snap… he doesn’t want her to ever look at him like that again, like she sees him as nothing but a killer. She has to understand. He’s not a monster.

And to think, he was getting some serious vibes off of her before, like maybe she was into him.

“Who’s this Victor that keeps calling you? He your boyfriend?” The thug has Sam’s phone in his hands and he’s browsing through it at his leisure.

“Yeah, he’s my sugar daddy,” Sam drawls, hiding his sudden elation.

Holy crap, he’d forgotten all about Victor. The old man knows where they are, and when Sam doesn’t answer his phone, he’ll know something’s wrong. Hope might not be so lost, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s all you can do to keep your feet under you as Clemens’ henchman marches you down the underground passage.

You’re going to die down here. Fitting that they’re leading you into a tomb.

At least you haven’t lost control of your bladder yet.

Clemens and his man light the way with their flashlights, but so far there’s nothing to see but hewn rock and dust. Lots of dust.

The henchman shoves you around a corner at the end of the tunnel.

“Here we are,” Clemens says. “Why don’t you have a look around?”

You scrunch your eyes shut against the burn of the floodlights set up around the inner chamber. As you adjust to the brightness, the room comes into view.

You gasp. “Oh, my god.”

The room is a perfect square, with intricate murals carved into the sanded walls. An ornate stone dais sits in the centre, supporting the most exquisite statue you’ve ever seen. Aphrodite.

You drift over to her, your heart full of wonderment.

She’s polished marble, and so lifelike you almost expect to find her breathing. The sculptor must have been centuries ahead of his time, using techniques that wouldn’t become popular until long after his death. His masterpiece is naked, but for one thing.

“Is this your cestus?” you whisper to her, as if she’ll turn to you and answer.

A depiction of her elusive relic adorns her, and it’s unlike any portrayal you’ve seen in paintings or sculptures. Strings and loops of delicately carved marble hang around her neck, covering her breasts and winding around her waist. You circle her, finding more tendrils wrapping around to cover her buttocks.

A regal lion lounges next to her, his mane luxurious and full, and she rests her right hand on his head. Her other hand is raised near her face, and on her outstretched finger sits a glorious white dove.

The cultural value in this tiny room is extortionate. You made it. You were right.

“You’re really here.” You’re standing in the presence of a goddess.

“Yes, she’s here, but where’s the damn girdle?” It’s Jackson, lurking over by one of the murals.

You start, remembering that he’s here, having paid him no mind once you were enthralled by Aphrodite. “Nice to see you again, Judas.” If only you had a hand free, you’d flip him off.

“Play nice, children,” Clemens says. “I want the artefact. Where is it?”

“She’s wearing it.” You nod towards the statue. “Don’t you see?”

“Not that thing, the real girdle,” Jackson snaps.

You shrug as best you can with your arms tied. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe this is all there is.”

It’s not exactly the cestus you’d hoped to find, but you’d be beyond proud to have your name attached to the discovery of this place.

Clemens’ eyes flash dangerously behind his glasses. He doesn’t share your sentiment. “Don’t toy with me, girl.”

“I’m not, I swear! Isn’t the statue enough? It must be worth—”

“Jackson, go and get Mr Drake and the others. I want to show her what happens when people lie to me.”

The blood drains from your face. Sam! You were so wrapped up in your discovery that you forgot about Sam! You open and close your mouth uselessly for a moment before you can get your words out. “I’m not lying to you. Don’t hurt him, please!”

Clemens ignores you, and soon enough there are the grunts and groans of Sam being dragged down the passageway.

The charming bastard smiles when he sees you.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says.

You almost laugh. How can any of this be all right?

“He’s not wrong,” Clemens says. “If you give me what I want, you’ll both go free. You should hurry though, before my men get bored and start breaking things.”

Oh god. Sam’s life is in your hands, isn’t it? You’ve never been under this kind of pressure. Are you going to crumble?

“Hey, hey.” Sam catches your eye with his good one, the other purple and swollen. “You can do this, I know you can. Get that brain working.”

How can someone be so sweet and still able to kill a man in under ten seconds? That’s going to take some reconciling. You can’t think about that now, though.

You nod to him, centring yourself. “Can I have my arms free at least?” you ask Clemens. “It’s really hard to think like this.”

“Don’t try anything,” he warns, before untying your bonds.

You groan and roll your shoulders, shaking your arms out like you can just cast off the pain and the fear.

Keep a cool head. Forget the men with guns, and the fact you might die tonight. Do what you do best and study the crap out of this place. Why not start with the mural on your left?

It’s huge, covering the entire wall, and it depicts Aphrodite rising from the foam, walking ashore at Paphos. Hello, symbolism.

Surrounding Aphrodite in the ocean are a number of icons so often associated with her. Swimming alongside her are dolphins, jumping the waves, and geese fly overhead in a V-formation, while ducks and long-necked swans paddle in the surf. She holds a conch shell in one hand, raising it to her ear as if listening to the ocean.

It’s serene and beautiful, but as far as you can tell? Unhelpful.

Another relief adorns the opposite wall, this time showing Aphrodite frolicking in a garden, surrounded by more of her symbology. She’s feeding a flock of sparrows that dance at her feet, while doves hover over her shoulders. A large apple tree is nearby, but the fruits that lie at its base are split open pomegranates, and around its trunk winds a vine of roses and myrtles.

Again, gorgeous. But does it mean anything?

Fuck. What now? She’s not even wearing her cestus in either image.

You return to the statue in the centre of the room, biting your lip.

If Aphrodite ever existed in any form, her power was strongest here. Can’t she send you a sign?

She stands there on her pedestal, silent, her lion regarding you with its milky eyes.

Wait a minute.

“Why a lion, of all things?” you say to no one in particular.

It’s Jackson that responds. “Could it be the Nemean Lion?”

The lion that Heracles killed as the first of his twelve labours?

“In Cyprus? With Aphrodite? I don’t think so.” You draw closer to the out-of-place king of beasts. “Look, the dais has some symbols etched into it.”

“I’ve seen them already. It’s just more doves and lions.”

“And horses and sphinxes! And here, this circle with the star in the middle? That’s an old depiction of the planet Venus.” You run your fingers over the grooves in the stone. “None of these are associated with Aphrodite.”

It comes to you. It’s so obvious, how did you not realise this sooner?

You turn to face everyone and point to the statue. “This isn’t Aphrodite.”

“What?” Clemens, Jackson, and Sam exclaim in unison.

Jackson recovers from his surprise, scoffing. “Of course it is, look at her.”

“Shut up and use your brain, Jackson,” you snap.

Sam laughs at that, and the two of you share a smile.

“Are you going to explain anytime soon?” Clemens says.

“Two painstakingly carved murals, covered in Aphrodite’s traditional emblems. The symbols are clearly important, but the statue, the centrepiece, is all wrong.”

“So what? Maybe the artist made a mistake.” Jackson says.

“Don’t be stupid. It wasn’t a mistake. I think it was very intentional.”

“Spit it out.” Clemens’ face is red with impatience.

Is it wrong that you’re excited to share your theory? Even now, in the bowels of the earth, surrounded by enemies?

“The symbols don’t match Aphrodite, but they do match someone else.” You take a steadying breath. “I think that this is Astarte.”

***

The room is silent for a moment.

“Who?” Clemens says, confusion evident on his features.

Jackson butts in. “She’s the Phoenician goddess of fertility and sexuality, practically their equivalent of Aphrodite.”

“And what’s she doing down here? Under the temple of Aphrodite?”

She answers him. “The temple was built by the Cult of Aphrodite, but the Cyprian branch of the cult was originally part of the Phoenician Cult of Astarte.”

Clemens isn’t impressed as with this revelation as Sam is. “What does any of this have to do with the artefact?”

Maybe she couldn’t persuade those university scholars to give a damn, but she can convince this asshole. “This statue is the clue! If I’m right and this is Astarte, and she’s wearing the cestus, then maybe we’re in the temple of the wrong goddess.”

“Lebanon,” Jackson pipes up. “There’s a shrine to Astarte in Lebanon, built by her cult before they came here. The girdle has to be there!”

Judging by her face, Sam bets she wasn’t counting on him knowing about that. She doesn’t need to worry, that prick won’t get his hands on the cestus. He doesn’t deserve it.

Clemens crosses his arms. “And you’re sure about this?”

“How much clearer do you want it?” Jackson says, full of swagger like he’d solved the puzzle himself. “Astarte’s wearing the girdle, practically begging us to come find her and take it off.”

She scoffs, her lip curling. “Yes, Astarte, goddess of sex, is begging you; the man who owns two pairs of crocs.”

His face reddens, from rage or embarrassment. “Listen, you bitch—”

“Enough!” Clemens roars, his bored façade broken. “Jackson, leave. Start making preparations for our departure to Lebanon.”

Jackson storms off, and as he passes his ex-partner, he shoves her to the ground. She hits the dirt hard, grazing her hands and knees.

“Bastard!” Sam tries to get up, but a thug shoves him down again. “Are you all right?”

She pushes herself up, wincing. “I’m fine.”

“You going to let us go now, asshole?” Sam glares up at Clemens. “You got what you wanted.”

The old man smiles, but it doesn’t make Sam feel any better. “You know, I would,” he says as he strolls towards the exit, “if I didn’t think you were going to follow me and cause trouble.”

Her eyes sparkle with tears. “We won’t, I swear! You can let us go!”

Clemens ignores her cry, saying over his shoulder to one of his men “Set the charges.”

It takes two mercs to haul Sam to his feet. They drag him towards her, with him fighting them every step of the way.

“What are you going to do to us?” she whimpers, her wavering voice cutting Sam to the core.

“Let us go, you bastards!” he yells, writhing against the grip of his captors.

“Shut up,” one of the nameless goons grunts, throwing Sam towards her, where she stands frozen.

Sam loses his balance, tripping and crashing into her, toppling them both over into the dust. Before he can right himself, the thugs wind a thick, heavy rope around them both, pulling it tighter and tighter every time he struggles against it.

“Let her go, all right?” he says, frantic now. “Leave me here, I don’t care, but you should let her go.”

It doesn’t matter what happens to him, this has always been on the cards. But she’s innocent. She doesn’t deserve any of this.

The mercenaries leave, not sparing a glance behind, no matter what obscenities Sam yells after them.

“Sam,” she whispers. “What are we going to do?”

“Everything’s going to be okay, you hear? Everything’s going to be—”

There’s a _boom_ and the chamber around them quakes.

The earth rattles, and the passage to the outside collapses into heaps of rock and rubble, sending dust flying into the stagnant air.

The floodlights topple over, and all but one goes out.

She's crying behind him, panicked, hiccoughing sobs that wrack his frame as well as hers, and it just breaks his heart.

This is all his fault.

He could have done things differently a thousand ways, but he’s so used to people like Victor and Chloe, people like himself, that maybe he’s forgotten how to be careful. Sometimes it’s like he doesn’t even want to be.

Did he drag her into his midlife crisis? What was he thinking, taking a bodyguard job? He’s never got anyone out of trouble in his whole life, quite the opposite, in fact.

But he’s going to get her out of here, if it’s the last thing he does.


	7. Chapter 7

The earth settles and is silent.

Your panicked breaths turn to choking coughs as you inhale the dust from the explosion.

Sam calls out to you from where he’s bound behind your back. “Are you all right?”

You spit out a mouthful of ash and try to breathe normally. “I think so,” you croak.

Your ears ring from the blast and the bump on the back of your head from when you were knocked out throbs. Your face is sticky with tears and your arms are hot with rope burn. Panic has run its course and now you sit limply, leaning your back against Sam’s and trying not to think. You’re going to die down here.

“I’m going to get you out of here, don’t you worry.” Sam jostles you as he wriggles around behind you.

“How?”

There’s a beat. “Not sure yet,” he grunts.

Great.

The crypt is lit by only one floodlight now, mostly cast into shadow, and miniscule. It’s like the walls are closing in on you even further, overwhelming you in this airless vault under the ground.

Did you want to get married? Have children? You can’t now.

You’ll never see Paris.

You’ll never make your mark.

You’ll never find Aphrodite’s cestus.

What a sad, little life you’ve led. The only people who might miss you are your co-workers from the museum. Is there anything meaningful to prove you ever existed?

Sam stops wiggling. “My lighter’s in my back pocket, I don’t think they took it. Can you grab it for me? I can’t quite reach it.”

His voice draws you out of your morbid reverie. “I’ll try,” you mumble, straining, your arms still behind your back, stretching your fingers downwards.

“Hey!” Sam yelps. “Easy on the goods, darlin’.”

You draw your hands away, cheeks burning. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, come on. I was kidding.” He laughs softly. “Try again.”

You reach down again, this time your fingers meeting denim and not skin. You twist and turn, trying to find a good angle as you wiggle your hand into the back pocket of Sam’s jeans.

“I can’t find it!” Your fingers grasp at nothing.

“Hey, hey, relax. Calm down and try the other pocket.”

“The other pocket. Right.” You start the whole process again, struggling to get your hand out of the one pocket and into the other. The tip of your middle finger brushes cool metal and you gasp in relief, clutching the lighter and manoeuvring your hand out of his pocket again. “I’ve got it!”

“Attagirl,” he says, warmth in his voice, “pass it to me.”

You lean forwards as far as you can, which isn’t much, and feel around with your empty hand, trying to find one of Sam’s. His calloused fingers close around yours and he squeezes gently. You squeeze back on reflex, glad for the comfort.

He clears his throat. “As much as I’d love to site here holding hands all night…”

“Right!” You pass the lighter between your hands and then press it into his palm. “Sorry.”

He chuckles. “It’s okay, you’re only human.” There’s a click as he flicks the lighter open.

You roll your eyes, managing a laugh despite yourself. Your cheeks are still warm. His hand felt nice in yours.

Not the time.

He’s killed men with those hands. He choked a man to death earlier tonight.

A lump forms in your throat and you swallow it down.

Don’t think about it now.

“I think I can burn through the rope,” he says. “If we pull apart as much as we can, maybe I won’t give us third degree burns.”

Oh, god. You groan, and the two of you strain forwards, creating a little bit of space between you.

“Here goes nothing.” He strikes the lighter to life.

You squeal in pain and try to flinch away. “Ow, fuck!”

“Shit, sorry, sorry.” He jolts the flame away from where it burned your wrist.

You drag in a deep lungful of air, your wrist searing in pain, and your eyes leaking tears down your face. The air is smoky with a mixture of burnt rope and flesh.

“Motherfucker!” He roars in pain, and then with a snap, the ropes break and the two of you pitch forwards into the dirt.

You squint in the poor light at your arm and grimace at the angry welt there. At least you’re not trussed up like a roast anymore. You get to your feet, your legs shaky, and survey the room. “Now what?” you say, sniffling.

He clambers to his feet as well, and checks out the caved in passageway. “We’re not getting out this way,” he says.

Panic rises in your throat again. “What do we do?”

“I need you to think. In those cult letters, what did they say about this crypt? Did they ever mention any secret passages or anything?”

You shake your head. “They only ever talked about the statue, and that was rarely. It was encoded, it was supposed to be a big secret.”

“Well, shit,” he mutters, before striding to one of the walls and running his fingertips over the stone.

“What, you think a hidden door is just going to swing open?”

“From my experience, yeah.”

Oh. “I’ll help look.”

“That would be good.”

You follow his lead and examine the walls, digging your fingernails into the cracks and knocking to find hollow spots. Nothing.

“Don’t worry too much though, all right?” he says. “I have a man on the outside who should be looking for us right about now, he’ll find us before our oxygen runs out.”

Forget suffocating to death. Someone else is involved? That wasn’t part of your deal.

“You told someone else about this?”

Hello, paranoia.

“Relax, he’s a friend. He’s here in Cyprus on a little vacation, that’s all.”

“Really? He’s not here to swoop in so you two can cut me out?”

Goodbye, subtlety.

He turns to face you, his brows knitted together in annoyance. “What?”

“I’m just saying, you never mentioned him to me before. Who is he?”

He sighs. “His name is Victor Sullivan, and he’s not the kind of guy you associate with if you value your reputation. I was trying to keep your hands as clean of possible.”

A convenient excuse.

“You’ve done a bang-up job so far.” You show him your grazed hands and the burn mark on your wrist.

Are you really angry about your hands? Or this Sullivan guy? Maybe you’re just too scared to broach what’s actually on your mind.

Don’t think about it.

He steps up to you, scowling. “That’s nothing, princess.” He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt to show you the damage to his own arm.

You recoil in horror. “Fucking hell.”

Almost his entire forearm is burnt and blistered. His battle wound is much, much worse than your own.

“Your arm…” you say, the wind taken from your sails.

He rolls his sleeve up over his elbow gingerly. “You still think I’m not looking out for you?”

He’d held the lighter against his own skin, burning himself so you wouldn’t get hurt more than you had to. You look down at your feet. “I’m sorry,” you mumble.

“It’s fine. Let’s just keep looking around, all right?”

You nod. Should you tell him what’s really on your mind? You can bring it up if you make it out of here alive.

Leaving Sam to inspect the walls and floor, you shuffle over to the statue. The marble is shiny as ever, Astarte unbothered by your plight.

Maybe if you squeeze her ass, the portal to Narnia will open.

You look up into her eerie eyes and it’s like she sees straight into your soul. The plump dove sitting on her finger could take flight at any moment; every groove of every feather has been meticulously carved into the marble. You stand up on your toes, stretching your arm up and running your fingers along each wing.

One of the feathers is raised slightly.

You press down with the pads of your fingers and there’s some movement there, like a button! You push down harder but you’re not tall enough to reach properly and you can’t quite get it to go in.

“Hey, Sam,” you call. “I think there’s a switch here but it’s stuck!”

He jumps up from where he’s been crouching in the corner. “Show me where.”

“On the dove’s back. One of the feathers, I think.”

“Up here?” He reaches up with ease, not having to strain at all to reach it. His tall frame dwarfs yours, making you feel small beside him. “I got it,” he says, and there’s the grinding sound of stone on stone.

“Oh, thank god.” You wait with bated breath for some secret passageway to swing open.

But nothing happens.

“Fuck!” Sam growls.

No, no, no, no. You’re trapped down here. You’re going to run out of air. You’ll die.

“Now what?” you sob.

He doesn’t have the chance to answer because the floor beneath you gives way, dropping you both flailing and screaming into blackness.

***

They land in a heap on the cold stone floor. Sam groans, his back aching in protest of the rough treatment, his breath squeezed out of his chest by the warm body splayed out over him.

He calls her name and pats her on the back, pretending he doesn’t notice how close her ass is to his face right now.

“Sam?” She sounds groggy, and she doesn’t move.

“Yeah, it’s me, kiddo. Time to get up.” He nudges her gently.

“Don’t call me that,” she slurs. “I’m not a child. I’m a fully grown woman, if you haven’t noticed.”

Believe him, darlin’, he’s noticed.

“You hurt? I’m going to roll you off me now.”

She hums like she’s thinking about it. “I’m okay, just a little woozy.”

“I’ll be gentle,” he promises, before wriggling out from underneath her. “You hit your head?” He sits beside her as she slowly rights herself.

“No, I don’t think so.” She sits up, resting her shoulder next to his. “Where are we?”

Good question. They’re in a cave of some kind, and near water, if the slimy walls are any indication. The trapdoor above them has closed itself again, concealed up high in the rocky ceiling. Light is coming in from a tunnel nearby.

“I have no idea.” He wishes he still had his cigarettes.

“I can’t believe we’re alive,” she says, blowing out a whistling breath.

“We ain’t out of the woods yet.”

“I know, but we’re out of that crypt, which is further than I thought we’d get.”

“It got kind of hairy back there, didn’t it?”

She laughs. It’s a little manic. “That’s putting it mildly! Does this sort of thing happen to you often?”

“It’s kind of been my life.”

“I can’t even imagine.” She turns to regard him with thoughtful eyes. “I’ve never known anyone like you, Sam.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Someone like him? He’s still trying to figure out what he wants that to mean. “Please. Handsome adventurers are a dime a dozen.”

She smiles. “I’m sure.”

He can tell she wants to say something else. “What is it?”

“You killed those men back there,” she says in a tiny voice.

She’s been biting her tongue over this all night, hasn’t she? This never goes well.

“I did, yeah.”

“Have you killed lots of people?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

She gets to her feet, brushing the dirt from her clothes like she can just wipe away any contact she’s ever had with him. “Okay. Wow.”

He’s had this conversation before, with other women. The danger that entices them in the first place inevitably spooks them too much to look him in the eye.

She’s not like that; she wandered into his world of her own volition.

He jumps up, rounding on her. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” He holds her shoulders, his hands finding their place there like they always seem to, and looks into her eyes. “This business is not clean, okay? If you’re wanting to dip your toes into the deep end then you’re going to get wet. It was us or them back there, and you hired me to keep you safe and help you find that damn cestus. God as my witness, that’s what I’m going to do, even if I have to get my hands dirty. Do you understand?”

Her cheeks tinge pink and she looks away. “I understand.”

He lets go of her. “Good.”

She blinks up at him, her eyes harder somehow than they were before. “I mean it. You’re absolutely right, I’ve been so naïve.”

No one’s ever looked at him like that. He softens immediately, turning away so she doesn’t see his face. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.” She breezes past him and leads the way along the tunnel.

He’s played things too fast and loose up to this point, underestimating the players in the game. It’s not going to happen again.

“Sam?” she calls out to him.

He rolls his shoulders and goes after her. “What’s wrong now?”

“What do you think?” she says, gesturing around her.

The tunnel comes to an abrupt end, open to the dawn air. The sun peeks over the horizon, lighting their surroundings.

The cavern opens up onto the ocean, with lapping waves as far as the eye can see.

He turns to her with a grin. “I hope you’re a strong swimmer.”


	8. Chapter 8

You wait for Sam to laugh, but he doesn’t. He’s not joking, is he?

“We’re going to swim?”

He shrugs. “You got a better idea? Come on, it can’t be too far to somewhere we can climb back up.”

Climbing, too? Great.

He sees your frown and adopts some sympathy. “It’s okay, I’ll be right there with you. I promise.”

“You said that before, and look how that turned out,” you say, regretting it instantly.

He looks contrite, and you reach for him, holding his arm above the burn mark.

“I’m sorry, I was joking. Bad taste, really.”

He smiles in that lopsided, roguish way of his. “Nah, it’s okay. I dropped the ball back there. I should have expected Clemens to bring his goons.”

The water sloshes against the rock you stand on. You can swim, sure, but you’re more accustomed to the heated pool at your gym than the cold morning ocean, salty as tears.

What else can you do? Go back the way you came and sit in the slimy little cave? No.

“Let’s go,” you say, resolute.

“Attagirl.” He takes your hand in his. “Follow my lead.”

He eases down the slippery rocks to the edge of the sea, turning his head to throw you a wink before he drops your hand and lowers himself into the water. You follow him down before you can think about it and chicken out.

“Fuck me, it’s cold!” You tread the frigid water with limbs covered in goosebumps.

He bobs over to you. “I thought it’d be warmer than this.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” you say through gritted teeth, trying to keep them from chattering.

He gives you a look, the lull of the tide bringing him closer towards you. “Just shut up and follow me, all right? Stay close.” He turns away and slides into a smooth breaststroke.

He’s heading towards a rocky shore not terribly far away. You force your frozen limbs into a clumsy front crawl, exhausted all at once. You ache in places you didn’t even know could ache, and the cold isn’t making it any easier to keep going. Your stomach chooses now to wail with emptiness, hunger pangs vibrating through you, your head light and cloudy.

Sam’s calling you. “Hey! Stay with me, you hear?”

You jolt back to awareness, horrified. You’ve let yourself drift further out to sea, the distance between you and the beach even greater than before, but you’re so tired… you must have been swimming for ages…

Come on, keep going.

You drag your arms through the water, so thick it feels like syrup, and kick your legs as hard as you can. The waves keep filling your mouth with saltwater and you have to keep spitting it out so you can breathe.

You’re just so tired.

“Oh, fuck.” Sam’s voice is muddy to your ears, like you’re underwater.

Maybe that’s because you are.

Your throat is on fire. You cough and splutter, and seawater splashes its way out of your gullet. Your eyes stream salt and you’ve never felt this awful in your life. Someone’s talking to you, but it’s hard to hear over the blood rushing in your ears.

You flop back down onto the slimy stone and draw several deep, painful breaths. The insides of your lungs are scratchy.

You come to a little more. You’re back in the tunnel under Astarte’s statue. What the hell happened?

“Oh, thank god. You’re awake.” It’s Sam, watching over you.

You manage a watery smile. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately,” you rasp, your throat like sandpaper.

“I’ve been doing a shitty job of keeping you safe, haven’t I?”

“At least I’m alive.” With a tremendous effort, you haul yourself into a sitting position.

“How do you feel?” He moves closer to check your eyes, his face tight with concern.

“Like I’ve drowned. What happened out there?”

“It’s my fault.” He looks down at the floor you both sit upon. “I shouldn’t have asked you to swim that distance, it was too far—”

You put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Stop blaming yourself. I don’t know what happened; one minute I was swimming after you, and the next… I wasn’t.”

“Your adrenaline probably crashed.” He squeezes your hand. “It’s only to be expected, after the ordeal you went through last night. When was the last time you ate anything substantial?”

“God, my last meal was almost that awful plane food.”

“That settles it. When we get back, we’re getting a steak in you. I mean…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Do you like steak? I don’t even know if you eat meat.”

You laugh a little. Is now really the time? “We’ll work something out,” you say. “How are we getting out of here?”

“It’s simple. I’m going to swim to shore and find Victor, then the two of us will come back for you.”

Yeah, right. Or they’ll leave you to die.

No. You need to stop thinking like this. Remember all the things he’s done for you so far. It’s not been smooth sailing by any means, but he’s got your best interests at heart. Didn’t you already decide you were going to trust him?

“How are you so calm? How is this not an ‘ordeal’ for you too?”

He chuckles. “It’s more ‘average day at the office’ than anything else.” His face grows sombre. “I forget sometimes, you know? That this isn’t how normal people spend their time. But don’t you worry, I’ve got my head on straight now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

You shiver in your wet clothes, grimacing, and he takes that as a sign to get moving. “Please don’t be gone long,” you whisper, hugging your knees into your chest.

“I won’t. I promise.” He squeezes your arm in goodbye.

“Oh, and Sam?” you pipe up just as he’s about to slide into the water again. “Thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”

He smiles at you and it’s like the sun has come out to thaw your bones. “Any time, princess.”

He salutes you and then he’s gone, out to sea.

Your teeth rattle in your skull. You’re shaking so much that you keep bumping your already sore head against the cave wall, adding sharp pains to the dull ache that fills your entire body. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could catch some sunshine on your clammy skin, but the day is turning out to be overcast and grey. Your body judders and shakes, and our eyes keep dipping closed without your permission. Every time they open again, an indeterminate amount of time has passed. How long ago did Sam leave? Minutes? Hours? Is he coming back at all?

Of course he is. He’s coming back for you.

***

After climbing ashore like fucking Aphrodite herself, Sam sprints the short distance back to the temple, trusting his inner compass to get him there so he can find his bearings.

It’s early enough that he dodges most of the weird looks he would normally get, soaked to the skin and burned and bruised, and he arrives just in time to witness the first local police cars arriving on the scene, no doubt there to investigate the explosion. He gives them a wide berth, slinking around to the convenience store a couple streets away where they’d left the car a few short hours ago.

It sits there still in the lot, untampered with. He lifts a decorative rock from a nearby flowerbed. Here goes nothing.

The rock shatters the passenger side window, and before the crashing glass can summon a store clerk, he reaches into the glove box and retrieves his emergency phone and cigarettes.

He bolts from the scene, his phone to his ear.

Victor answers on the first ring. “Sam? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours. What the hell is going on?”

“There’s no time to explain. Your plane still at the harbour?”

“Of course. Why?”

“I’ll be there in two minutes and the engine had better be running.”

“Is the girl with you?”

Fuck, don’t ask him about her right now. “Just get the plane ready, please.”

“Jesus Christ, all right.”

“We’ll need towels. And coffee.”

“What am I, your maid?”

“Thank you, Victor.”

He hangs up and swings into an alleyway, cutting through side streets and using the sunrise to angle himself south, gunning for the coast.

Is she going to be all right? She has to be. She’s too young and beautiful to have her light snuffed out by someone like him. God, how did he fuck this up to the point where he’s fearing for her life?

Hauling her lifeless body through the icy water shook him more than he could have guessed. To find her dead on that rock would destroy him.

He needs to pull himself together. He’ll save her and be a goddamn hero. Just watch.

Up in the air, the Temple of Aphrodite is like a miniature model, fingerbones reaching up to Helios.

“You see the water there?” Sam points past the sanctuary.

“Want me to set her down?” Victor begins the plane’s descent, pulling them into a graceful landing on the ocean.

“God, I hope she’s okay.” Sam rushes to the hatch, swinging it open and diving into the water with a splash.

The mouth of the cave is close by, and she's hunched just inside, shivering, but alive. She grins at him when he hoists himself out of the water, beaming like he’s the most gorgeous person she’s ever seen in her life.

The feeling’s mutual.

He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “How you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Right now? Amazing.” She laughs breathily, and he could really just kiss her right now.

She’s okay.

She’s okay.

He can breathe.

“Let’s get you out of here.” He slips back down into the water. “I want you to hold on to me. Can you do that for me?”

She inches closer to the ledge, dangling her legs into the water. Her eyes seek his. “I can do it.”

“That’s my girl.” He turns his back to her and waits for her to wrap her arms around his neck.

Her breath in his ear makes him shiver as he pulls them both through the water, and her body is warm against his back. Is he a creep to notice something like that at a time like this? He can’t help it, he’s human.

He makes it back to the plane at last, and Victor reaches down to help her inside, lifting her into the cabin.

“Here you go, darlin’.” Victor hands her a big fluffy towel as Sam climbs into the plane.

“Thank you,” she says, wrapping herself up and taking a seat in the back.

Sam grabs a blanket for himself and thumps into the seat next to her. “Hey, Victor,” he says as the old man closes up the hatch, “bring that coffee over here, would you?”

“What did your last slave die of?” he grunts, but he presses the thermos into her frozen hands all the same.

“Disobedience,” she says absently, busy trying to get her wrinkled fingers to open the thermos’ lid.

Victor raises his eyebrow at her and she flushes. She turns to Sam. “That’s what you’re supposed to say when someone asks you that question.” She’s still fumbling with the screw cap.

She looks so meek and innocent, he can’t help but burst into laughter, Victor chuckling along with him.

“Here, will you just let me do that?” Sam smiles and takes the coffee from her, opening the cap and pouring her a cup. “Drink that, you’ll feel better.”

She breathes in the steam and takes a sip, some colour returning to her lips.

“Get us out of here, Victor.” He leans back into his seat and throws an arm around her without thinking. When she inches closer to him, he curls his arm tighter. It’s to keep her warm, all right?

“Yes, your majesty.” The propeller rumbles, and they’re in the air. “So, what the hell happened to you kids out there? You got as far as telling me about falling through the floor?”

Sam groans. “Yeah, the fucking floor just opened up and we fell into this tunnel. Why the hell was there a tunnel down there, anyway?”

“It was probably an escape route for the cult, in case their rivals attacked,” she mumbles in a sleepy little voice. “Or maybe an anti-theft trap. You know, mess with the statue and you get dropped into a pit full of snakes, or something.”

“Jesus. Guess we’re lucky we were a thousand years too late, huh?” He chuckles, but there’s no response from her.

Her head thunks onto his shoulder and she’s breathing deep, even snoring a tiny bit. He looks up and meets Victor’s eye as he casts a quick glance over his shoulder at his two passengers.

There’s a stupid, soft smile plastered across Sam’s face right now. He schools his expression into a more suitable scowl. “What?” he says, careful not to wake her.

“Nothing at all,” Victor says. “Awfully cosy there, aren’t you?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, sure, sure. I’ve had a few that weren’t like that myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays ❤︎
> 
> also, i'm working on a new smutty sam fic atm, for those of you that are into that sort of thing 😘


	9. Chapter 9

Someone’s calling your name and nudging you awake.

“Fuck off,” you grumble, nuzzling further into your pillow.

Your pillow starts laughing. You crank open one eye. There’s drool on your face.

“Time to wake up,” Sam sing-songs in your ear.

“Whoa!” You unstick your face from his chest, your other eye snapping open, and wipe your face with the towel still around your shoulders. “Where are we?” You rub your eyes.

He laughs, a goofy grin on his face. His eye is still swollen and sore looking, but he seems okay otherwise. “We’ve landed near the hotel,” he says. “Come on, let’s go get cleaned up.”

There’s a shiny wet patch on the breast of his shirt. You flush scarlet. “I am so sorry.”

He looks down at himself and starts laughing again. “Don’t worry about it. I’m covered in dirt and my own blood, a little drool won’t hurt.”

Everything just runs off him, doesn’t it? His blasé attitude annoyed you before, but now you can find the joy in it. Both of you almost died last night, but here you are, a little beaten up, but together. He came back for you, just like he said he would. What’s a bit of spit compared to that?

Before you can swoon at the memory of his daring rescue, you get up to stretch your limbs. The plane is empty but for the two of you. “Where’s the old guy? Victor?”

Sam stands as well, opening the plane’s hatch and hopping out into the light rain. “He went to get food. Shit, I never did find out what kind of food you like to eat.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m easy.”

He sticks his head back in the plane just to grin at you. “Oh, really?”

“You know what I mean.” You roll your eyes.

For once, you don’t blush like a schoolgirl. After everything that’s happened, it’s like you’ve known this guy for much longer than a couple days. You can welcome the banter without feeling embarrassed. Hell, technically you’ve already slept with him, right?

You follow him out of the plane on wobbly legs and he reaches out to steady you as you step down. “Thanks.” You smile up at him.

He slams the hatch shut and the two of you cross the airfield, winding along the dirt road until you reach familiar streets. The rain’s keeping most people indoors where they can’t be suspicious of the pair of you with your dirty clothes and wet hair.

“So, you, uh, think you’ll be requiring my services as a pillow again any time soon?”

“Do you charge extra for that? I don’t know if I can afford you.”

He grins, pleased that you’re playing along. “My rates are very reasonable.”

“I don’t know, as shitty as the hotel pillows are, at least they’re quiet.”

“You wound me! I thought you liked my wit.”

“In small doses.” You hold up your fingers an inch apart. “Like, really small.”

“You’re shit out of luck, then. There’s nothing small about me.”

You keep a straight face for half a second before creasing with laughter. “Wow, okay.”

The two of you finally reach the hotel and he holds the door open for you to step into the lobby. You head over to the elevator, bundling inside together.

In the small tin box, you can’t tell which of you smells worse. You can’t wait to wash the stench of seaweed off you.

“Come on over to my room when you’re ready and we’ll eat,” Sam says when the elevator gets to his floor and he steps out.

“Okay, see you later.” You wave goodbye as the doors slide closed again.

You walk down the hall on autopilot, finding your room key where you’d hidden it in the god-awful green vase sitting in a nook in the wall. You let yourself into the room, and the second the door shuts behind you, the solitude cuts through the strings holding you up and you sink to the scratchy carpet.

How do you feel?

Relived?

Back to normal?

In shock?

You should be grateful to be alive, you almost died more than once!

Between the hopeless panic tied up in the crypt, and then vomiting up the Mediterranean Sea after nearly drowning in it, isn’t this the part where you limp home with your tail between your legs?

No. You can’t go home.

If you run away now, then everything you’ve gone through will be for nothing. You’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, a target smeared on your back, the word ‘VICTIM’ scrawled across your forehead.

There are people in the world that will try to walk all over you, try to crush you into the dirt like a bug, and you can’t let them. You won’t let them make you feel that way every again.

You’re going to beat them.

You hoist yourself onto your tired feet and traipse over to the bathroom, turning on the shower. While you wait for the water to heat up, you eye yourself in the mirror. You’re exhausted and bedraggled, but stronger somehow, too.

Maybe it’s the set of your jaw, or the darkness in your eyes, but there’s something in your reflection that you don’t recognise. It’s like looking at someone else, someone older or wiser.

What are you becoming?

The room is too steamy now to maintain eye contact with yourself, and you strip and climb into the shower. As the blood and grime swirls its way down your body and into the drain, you pretend your fear and anxiety are rinsing away too. You try to slow your breathing and relax your muscles, but you can’t come down from red alert.

You’re furious. They need to pay, Clemens and that snivelling roach Jackson. To think you were blaming yourself for treating him like shit! Nothing can justify leaving someone for dead like that.

Anger is easier than fear, and more fuelling. It helps you through the stinging pain were the water hits your burnt arm, and when you forget the bump on your head and wash your hair with too much vigour.

Hopefully Sam will have a first aid kit. You don’t really want to answer any questions from the hotel staff about how you got so beat up.

Sam. You get hot thinking about him, your mind slipping away from you and conjuring up ways for you to show him your appreciation.

Maybe he’ll knock on your door, and you’ll answer in nothing but your towel. You’ll pull him inside, let the fabric fall to the floor and—

— _he chokes him, dragging him down until his neck breaks with a sick snap_ —

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. Flirting is one thing, but it’s going to take some time before you can think of his hands on you without wondering how many men he’s killed with them.

If it’s possible to still be a good man with bloodstained hands, then he is. If it’s not? You’re probably not much better than him at this point, anyway.

***

Sam finishes cleaning up his swollen eye and grimaces. Damn, it smarts. His blistered arm is wrapped up in a bandage, and if he focusses really hard on finding his inner peace, then it still hurts like hell.

There’s a knock at his door, and he comes out of the bathroom in time to see Victor letting her in. She smiles at both of them in turn, and Sam’s heart lifts at the sight of her. God, she’s got a gorgeous smile.

“Do I smell pizza?” She eyes the boxes on the low table.

“Help yourself,” Victor says, going to sit at one end of the couch.

“Wait a sec.” Sam gathers up the first aid kit from the bathroom counter and brings it over to the sofa. “Sit over here, I want to look at you.”

She snorts. “Do you?”

“Save some for the honeymoon, kids.” Victor shakes his head.

“Ignore him,” Sam says. “Let me check your hands.”

She approaches him, and perches on the edge of the couch. “Okay.”

He kneels on the floor in front of her, and reaches out to take her hands in his own. Her fingers are delicate and callus-free, her nails kept short and unpainted. Not quite adventurer’s hands, but getting there; her palms are grazed, and he makes quick work of them with some antiseptic wipes. “Sorry, does that sting?”

“A little.” She bites her bottom lip.

She doesn’t even know how sexy that is, does she?

He winds a bandage around her wrist to protect her burn mark, his fingertips tracing the soft skin of her inner arm as he does so. She watches him, silent, and doesn’t pull away even after he’s tied the bandage off.

“This pizza’s going to go cold, you know,” Victor scolds them.

“All right, old man. Jesus,” Sam says, grinning at her as he passes her a slice.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, staving off the worst of the hunger pangs.

She wipes her face and hands with a napkin. “I’m sorry,” she says.

He frowns. “What for?”

“For everything. For needing rescuing in the water, for what I said to you in that crypt, for dragging you into this mess in the first place… and let’s see, what else? Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s my fault that they caught us in the first place.” Her shoulders slump.

“Whoa, whoa, don’t be stupid.” He rests a hand on her knee. “I should be apologising to you! I knew what I was getting into when I took this job, more than you did, even. And what do you mean it’s your fault they caught us?”

“I didn’t cover my tracks very well, did I? All Jackson had to do was call the museum and see if I’d shown up for work. They’d see no reason not to tell him, he was my assistant.”

While Sam’s still processing the fact that she can apparently blame herself for anything and everything, Victor answers her.

“Look, kid. We can all find a million reasons every day to beat ourselves up. ‘I should’ve done this, I shouldn’t have said that,’ yadda, yadda.” He nods to Sam. “Lord knows the two of us have done countless things we’re not proud of, but if we stopped to apologise for them all then there’d be no time left for the things that actually matter.”

“And what things are those?” she asks.

“Family. Friends. The glint in a beautiful barmaid’s eye, and taking what’s yours from the hands of people who’d try to steal it from you.”

She nods like she’s taking the old bastard seriously. “I’m either in or I’m out, I need to make my decision and stick to it. There’s no room for anything in between.”

“So, what do you say?”

Her face is firm. “I’m in.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise. “What? You want to keep going?”

“Of course.”

“Look, you don’t need to let Victor’s little speech sway you, all right? No one’s going to think less of you if you choose to back out now.”

“I would,” she says, “but that’s not the point. Do you know how scared I was when I woke up and saw you covered in bruises? When they tied us up down there and left us in the dark?”

“I—”

“More scared than I’ve ever been in my fucking life! That’s exactly why I need to do this.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m still afraid, even now. That fear is never going away, not unless I do this. I’ll be terrified my whole life unless I can look back and say ‘it’s over, I’ve beaten it. I’ve beaten them.’”

Victor nods. “Well said, darlin.’”

Her resolution is radiant. Sam wants her to be safe, but he also wants her to be happy. “All right,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

She blows out a shaky breath. “So, Lebanon. How are we getting there and when are we leaving?”

“I can fly you out there if you give me some coordinates,” Victor says.

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “They searched my phone, so I’m pretty sure they know you’re involved. They’ll have eyes on the sky.”

“We could hire a boat?” she offers. “The site of the shrine is on the coast.”

“Yeah, we could land somewhere down the coastline and go the rest of the way on foot. Of course, we’ll have to sneak right under their noses, and we’re not doing so well at that lately.”

She catches his eye. “I can do it.”

She can fucking do anything if she puts her mind to it.

He grins at her. “Go get some rest, Victor and I will sort out the boat rental. We can leave first thing in the morning.”

“We should leave tonight,” she says, getting up.

“Tonight, it is.”

He walks her to the door, and just as she’s about to leave, she stands up on her tiptoes and kisses him on his stubbly cheek. Before he’s realised what happened, she’s scurrying down the hall, the tips of her ears hot pink.

He grins, watching her go. He’s still got it.

Once she’s disappeared around the corner, he closes the door, retreating into the room and lighting a cigarette. Victor follows suit and lights his cigar, both of them waving away the fact that smoking is prohibited inside the hotel.

“Quite a girl you’ve got there,” Victor says.

Sam chuckles to himself. “I didn’t know she had it in her, she’s braver than I thought she’d be.”

Victor gazes at him knowingly.

“Would you stop that? I already told you, there’s nothing going on between us.” Well, maybe not ‘nothing,’ but he’s not ready to put a label on it yet.

“I think the lady doth protest too much.”

“I’m not even going to pretend to know what that means.”

Victor smirks. “It means you’re a lot more like your brother than you’d like to think, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year 🎉


	10. Chapter 10

You lie on the hotel bed, already dressed to go, your veins thrumming with anticipation. Any moment now, there’ll be a knock on your door with the news that the boat is ready and it’s time to go. Adventure is calling you.

Earlier today, you were a scared little girl, wandering somewhere you didn’t belong. Things are different now; you’re going into this thing with both eyes open. Your lust for revenge keeps you brave, as well as your lust for something else…

Nope, not going there right now. Unprofessional, not to mention unrequited. You can’t believe you kissed him earlier!

Just focus on the journey ahead. You need to prepare yourself for Lebanon.

But, God. You’re only a woman.

Sam’s great. He’s smarter than you’d think, with a wealth of knowledge hiding behind that roguish grin. You want to pick his brain the when you next have some downtime together.

He’s charming, too, to the point of exasperation. How many times has he made you roll your eyes in derision only to blush beet red a moment later?

And you haven’t even got started on physicality! His face is a little worn around the edges, but it’s not off putting—quite the opposite, in fact. Who knew you had a thing for older men?

Then, there’s his amazing body. He’s fit and strong, and you have first-hand knowledge how those muscles feel rippling under his skin. His hands—

The hands of a killer? Or a protector? He bandaged your wounds with those hands, and you thanked him with a kiss, didn’t you?

It’s moot, anyway. As if he’d be interested in you in return. Wouldn’t he want someone much more interesting?

You can picture him with any number of women, none of them like you. He’ll have some world-renowned historian in one corner of the globe, sophisticated and sexy, able to match every ounce of his charm and wit. She doesn’t blush, ever.

Then there will be some exotic beauty in a faraway land, waiting for him to return to her arms like he promised he would. Maybe he does, on occasion, when the wind is blowing just right and the scent of jasmine is on the breeze.

There are women in the treasure hunting business, too. Women like Chloe Frazer, strong and fierce and capable. Women who help him instead of the other way around, or at the very least, are able to keep up with him.

Not like you. You always drag him down and force him to rescue you.

You’re not all bad, are you? Normal, yes, but you’ve got brains, and you’re not the worst person in the world to look at. You’re young and perky, but is that enough to hold someone like Sam’s interest?

He likes to call you kid, too, not the sexiest nickname there is. For a little while, you got things like ‘princess,’ and ‘sweetheart,’ but the whole day has been a blur, you could be misremembering.

Isn’t it kind of inappropriate to think these things about a man you’re paying to hang out with you?

Four raps on the hotel door make you bolt upright on the bed, pulling the emergency brake on your train of thought.

You scoot over to open the door and you’re met with the conductor himself.

“Are you ready to go?” Sam says, leaning against the doorframe in a way that exudes effortless sex appeal.

Could you pull off that kind of casual grace? You give it a try, lounging against the opposite door jamb in what you hope is a sultry manner. He gives you a weird look and you stop it, standing normally again.

“I’m all packed.” You avoid his gaze, instead eyeing his current attire.

He’s wearing some sports team tee with a plaid shirt over it, unbuttoned. It’s the least offensive thing you’ve seen him in so far, the colours even kind of match.

“Can I come in? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Of course. What’s up?” You close the door behind him once he enters the room.

He holds his hand out towards you, his gun laying flat across his palm. “It’s okay, you can take it. It’s empty.”

“What?”

“I mean, I know they say there’s no such thing as an unloaded gun, but I triple checked. Here, take it.”

“Why?”

“I want to show you how it works in case you ever need to—”

“Shoot someone?”

“—defend yourself. Here.” He takes you by the wrist, guiding your hand to the pistol. “You don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you’re absolutely sure you want to shoot, all right?”

“All right,” you mumble, relenting and taking the gun from him. “It’s heavy!”

“It’ll be heavier with a full clip, but you can hold it with both hands. Here.” He stands behind you, guiding your arms into position. “Bend that elbow a bit more, widen your stance a little, there you go.”

You stand there, holding a gun that’s made for hands much bigger than yours, uncertainty making you wobble. He steadies you, his chest to your back, his hands on your arms.

“Attagirl,” he says, his breath warm on the back of your neck.

“So, I just point and shoot?”

He chuckles. “You might want to aim, first.”

“Aiming. Right.”

“That’s what these are for.” He traces his fingers over the sightlines on the top of the gun. “See?”

“I’m not a complete idiot,” you say, cheeks hot. Once again, you’re overwhelmed with how out of your depth you are.

“You want me to show you how to reload?”

“Yes, please.”

You watch him load the magazine and chamber a round, before ejecting the bullets again and getting you to copy him.

“There, that should give me some peace of mind,” he says, holstering his pistol. “The boat’s all ready, so we should get going. Victor says a storm’s on the way.”

“Oh, perfect.” You grab your bag of essentials and follow Sam out the door, already missing having him so close to you.

“It’ll give us some cover, at least,” he says, shrugging. “How are you feeling?”

What a question. You kind of feel like you want him to take you to bed, but you’re not telling him that.

“Determined,” you say. “Before, I was motivated because I wanted recognition from my peers, and all the accolated that come with that. I don’t think that gave me enough fire to do what I needed to do. But now…”

“Now it’s personal,” he supplies, and gosh, but now you’re finishing each other’s sentences. Aren’t you two just the cutest?

“That’s exactly it. Now I want to find that cestus so that they can’t have it.”

“I think you’ll find that to be much more motivational,” he says, and you can tell from the look on his face that he knows what he’s talking about.

You take the elevator down and leave the hotel. When you step into the night air, you shrug off the timid bookworm you were mere hours ago and prepare yourself to become something else.

“You kids be safe out there,” Victor says, puffing another cigar as he stands on the dock and bids you farewell. He’s staying behind in case something goes wrong and he needs to swoop in and save your asses again.

“We will, Victor, don’t you worry.” Sam’s behind the steering wheel of the little rented yacht.

“And keep your damn radio on!”

“I’ll make sure he does,” you say with a warm smile, and then the boat rumbles and you’re heading out onto the dark water.

The boat purrs beneath you, and you head up front to join Sam at the helm. “So, you can sail a boat, too. Is there anything you can’t do?”

He turns to you with a sly smile. “No, I’m pretty much perfect.”

“And humble.” You giggle.

“You know it.”

You look out at the ocean ahead and imagine you can see your destination from here. This is it. Are you an adventurer now?

***

Sam resists the urge to throw his arm around her shoulders, instead keeping his hands on the steering wheel.

“It’s going to take a few hours, but if we keep heading southeast, we should land right between Beirut and Tyre,” she says.

“And that’s good?”

“Yes. From there it’s a short-ish hike to Maghdouché, the site of Astarte’s shrine.”

“You know your way around, right?”

She shrugs. “Mostly.”

“Good enough.”

She hums in agreement, pulling her jacket closer around her as she huddles into the passenger seat. It’s summer but the night air whipping past them as they cut through the water is as cold and unforgiving as the ocean itself.

The excitement’s back, boiling his blood and making him feel powerful. Her fledgling tenacity is a development he didn’t expect, but it’s a welcome one. The hardness in her eyes now is guilt inducing, but also comforting; it’ll serve her a lot better than her doe-eyed wonder from before.

“What do you think will happen when we get there?” she says. He almost doesn’t hear her over the boat’s engine.

“From my experience, there’s usually two ways this kind of thing goes down. One: we sneak in, slow and quiet, and while they’re busy looking in all the wrong places, we get our hands on the cestus and make a break for it.”

“Okay, option one: stealthy. What’s option two?”

“Well, uh, the opposite. We go in hard and noisy, guns blazing, that kind of thing. You’d be surprised how often that works, these guys have the aim of Stormtroopers, I swear to God.”

She grins at the joke and it warms his heart. If nothing else, he’s still good at playing the clown.

“I think we should take our chances with option one, but that’s just me,” she says.

“You got it, princess.” He’s not sure why, but the cutesy pet name just slips out.

Is it so he can see her blush like a schoolgirl, only to snort and roll her eyes? Is it because she’s so delicate and soft and prim, where he’s tough and hard and crass? Maybe he’s anointing himself her knight in shining armour, swearing to lay down his life to protect her. He always did have a flair for the dramatic.

It would help if she wasn’t so darn cute.

He shouldn’t think of her like that (she’d kill him, for one thing), she’s a grown woman, she’d want words like ‘brilliant’ and ‘strong’ and ‘beautiful’ associated with her.

She is all of those things, and more, but there’s something about how small her frame feels next to his that makes him want to hold her close and never let go.

That, friends, is fucking terrifying.

Often (although not always) due to circumstances beyond his control, he’s been a love ‘em and leave ‘em type. What’s more disconcerting—the fact that he’s actually interested to get to know her better, or the enormous age gap?

Victor, dirty old man that he is, didn’t seem to think too much of the latter.

_“So, how old is she, anyway?”_

_“If she’s too young for me, she is certainly too young for you, you old pervert,” Sam says as the two of them look over the motorboat they’ve rented._

_“I was talking about the boat.” Victor’s eyebrow is raised and his eyes gleam wickedly._

_“Yeah, right,” Sam scoffs. “And, uh, she's twenty-eight.”_

_Victor pauses for a minute before cracking into a shit-eating grin. “She’s not too young for you, boyo.”_

_“You’ve said that already.”_

_“You want to know one of the few rules I live by?”_

_“No, but I feel like you’re going to tell me anyway.”_

_“Half your age, plus seven,” Victor says, like he’s imparting some great wisdom._

_“What?”_

_“That’s the youngest you can date without it being creepy. Half your age, plus seven.”_

_All right, he’ll humour the old man. Half of forty-two, plus seven…_

_“Well, shit.” He lights a cigarette so he doesn’t have to say any more than that._

Coming to terms with the fact that she’s attractive and not too young for him, Sam peers at her from the corner of his eye. Why is he so drawn to her? After all, there are plenty of hot women out there who aren’t too young for him.

It’s because she’s just like him, in a way. There’s an emptiness inside of her, a need to prove herself that he knows only too well. His big victory was bittersweet, and he doesn’t want that for her.

When she talks about Aphrodite, her voice fills with passion and excitement. This means everything to her. She reminds him of himself, telling the story of Henry Avery and the Gunsway Heist to anyone who would listen.

He wants to help her achieve her dreams because maybe, just maybe, that’ll make up for some of the hurt he caused chasing pirate treasure.

“What were you doing when Chloe called you about this job?” she pipes up.

“I was staying with my brother and his wife for a few days.”

“Oh, you have a brother? Older or younger?”

“Younger. His name’s Nathan.”

“Nathan Drake? I feel like I know that name…”

“Of course, you do,” he mutters under his breath. He loves his brother, but the rules of sibling rivalry decree that he must strive to outshine him.

“Wait, your brother is Nathan Drake, the explorer? How did I not know this already?”

The excitement in her voice is irritating. The guy had thirteen years on Sam, all right?

“Yeah, yeah, he’s found a lost city or two.” Sam shrugs, a tight smile on his face.

“Still,” she says, elbowing him in the ribs and smirking up at him, “how many mythical cesti has he discovered? I’ll bet none.”

“Which is the same amount we have, so don’t get cocky.” He laughs, his smile growing into a real one.

She’s a keeper, all right.


	11. Chapter 11

“Keep an eye out for the coastguard,” Sam tells you. “We don’t want to deal with them if we can help it.”

Right. Illegally crossing international waters. “Roger that.”

You’re the only ones on the ocean this stormy night. The wind has picked up over the last couple hours, and rain pelts the boat’s windshield, but the water isn’t so choppy that you’re unsteady in your seat. The headlights illuminate a short distance ahead, enough for Sam to dodge any rocks or debris should he have to, but there’s not much in the way of things to look at.

The immediate excitement of sailing on the ocean in the middle of the night has already had time to wear off, and there’s still so much of the Mediterranean Sea between you and your destination.

But what’s the use in sitting here bored, when the most intriguing man you’ve ever met is just across from you?

“You helped recover the Tusk of Ganesh a few months ago, right?”

“You could say that.” He relaxes into his seat. “It was mostly all them—Chloe and Nadine, I mean.”

You wave your hand in dismissal. “You don’t need to be Mr Modest. We’ve a long ride ahead of us, the least you can do is regale me with a story.”

He quirks an eyebrow at you, grinning. “I guess I do have a story or two I could tell.”

Not five minutes later, and you’re laughing your ass off. “He believed you were an expert, when you couldn’t even pronounce ‘Hoysala’ correctly?”

“Asav bought it for a while, yeah. Although, when he found out he’d been had, he was not pleased.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Oh, the usual. Kept me handcuffed, forgot to feed me every now and then, denied me access to soap and water, generally roughed me up.” He lights a cigarette before continuing, “When Chloe and Nadine came to rescue me, he trapped us all inside a flooded chamber while he made off with the Tusk. We almost drowned.”

“Oh, my god. How did you get out of that?”

“Uh, with a lockpick, a big rock, and a shit-ton of luck.” He shrugs. “That’s usually how it goes.”

It is, isn’t it? Are you ready? You’d better be.

Sam won’t let anything happen to you if he can help it.

You smile softly. “I’m glad you’re so lucky.”

He looks over to you with an answering smile on his lips. You hold each other’s gaze for just a moment before he turns back to focus on piloting the boat. He has nice eyes.

He clears his throat. “So, what about you? How did you end up here? What’s the deal with that Jackson guy?”

“There’s nothing going on between us, if that’s what you mean.”

“It wasn’t, but that’s good to know. You deserve better than him.”

You look away to hide your pleased expression. “Anyway, we met in the library a couple of years ago. We were looking at books in the same section and ended up getting into an argument about Athena and Arachne, somehow.”

“Don’t tell me, I got this… goddess of wisdom and… something to do with spiders?”

“She was the first spider. Once, she was mortal, but Athena envied her superior weaving skills and cursed her for her slight.”

“I thought Athena cursed Medusa and turned her into a gorgon.”

You shrug. “What can I say? Athena was not to be trifled with.”

“I’m getting that impression.” He chuckles. “So, why focus your studies on Aphrodite? Why not Athena?”

“I guess I never identified much with the goddess of wisdom and war. Aphrodite’s just as badass, but in a different way—this pure force of femininity, not shamed for her sexuality.” You catch yourself before you can wax lyrical. “Of course, I’m not saying I totally identify with the goddess of love and beauty, either…”

He gazes at you. “I don’t know, I could see some of her in you.”

You don’t know what to say, full of butterflies.

“We were talking about Jackson. You became partners?”

“Right. We met a few more times and he asked me why I was always in the library, so I told him about the cestus and how I thought I might be able to actually locate it. He was enthusiastic right away, which turned out to be because he thought I was going to sleep with him.”

A laugh barks out of Sam. “What?”

“I’m not joking, I think he thought the whole ‘I’m studying the Greek goddess of sex’ thing was all a giant come-on.”

“Why would you put up with him?”

“At the time, it was just nice to talk to someone who didn’t outwardly think I was crazy.”

“The professors didn’t make much of your theories, did they?”

“They did not.” You sigh. “Jackson was annoying and kind of a pest, but I thought I could handle it. He seemed harmless. I still can’t believe this is where we’ve ended up.”

“Hey, it’s not the end yet,” Sam says. “Anything could happen.”

You stiffen. “Are you suggesting I’m not still going to hate his guts by the end of this?”

“I’m not saying you should forgive him, but that Clemens guy is obviously calling the shots. He’s probably got something on Jackson.”

That makes you bristle. “He got himself into this mess, and he dragged me into it too. He deserves whatever he gets.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“He left us to die,” you say through gritted teeth.

Why is this guy so chill about everything? Can’t he take anything seriously?

Wait, hadn’t you just decided that that was something you liked about him? Ugh!

“Let’s just drop it, yeah?” he says. “Talk about something else?”

“Fine.” You turn away from him and look out onto the dark ocean, squinting at what you see there. “What’s that? Is that the coastguard?”

Sam whips his head around to see what you’re looking at. “Shit, it could be. I’ll kill the lights, maybe it’ll pass.”

Your heartrate is picking up already, your fight-or-flight response kicking in as darkness swallows the motorboat, and then the only thing you can see is the little light bobbing on the water that means there’s another vessel out here with you.

“If we just keep moving carefully and slowly, they might not notice us,” Sam murmurs.

“Please don’t capsize us.”

“Give me some credit. We’re not going fast enough to do any damage even if I did hit something.”

The other boat is much closer than it was before, pursuing you like a shark that’s scented blood.

“It’s coming this way,” you whisper.

Sam curses under his breath and pulls out his gun from its holster on the back of his waistband.

“What? You’re going to shoot the coastguard?” Is everything in this business solved with the barrel of a gun?

“Uh, darlin', I don’t think that’s the coastguard.” He jumps to the rear of the boat where the supplies are kept, unzipping the duffel bag that contains his extra ammunition. “Take the wheel for me, would you?”

He says it so casually that you obey, getting both hands on the steering wheel before realising a major problem. “Sam? I don’t know how to drive a boat!”

“Just relax, it’s no different than driving a car.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“I hope you’re a fast learner then, because you’re about to be engaged in your first ever boat chase.”

“What?”

“Yeah, so if you could speed things up a little, that would be great.”

You crane your neck to see him, your stomach twisting. He’s taking cover in the stern, and the not-coastguard’s boat is right on your heels.

Focus! He needs you right now!

You turn back to the task at hand. How should you even approach this? There isn’t a gas pedal, for a start, but many different switches and levers on the dashboard. The gathering storm clouds hide the moon and stars more often than not, keeping you in the dark, and you can’t make heads or tails of what you’re supposed to do.

“Sam?”

“You can turn the lights on, they already know we’re here.”

“Sure, okay.” A beat passes. “And, just out of curiosity, which switch would that be?”

“The dashboard light is above your head, that should help.”

You reach up and sure enough, your fingers find a switch right above you. You flip it, blinding yourself with the golden glow of the dashboard light, but also illuminating the symbols on the boat’s switches and levers.

You wrote the fucking book on symbolism. You can do this.

You hit the switch emblazoned with the lightbulb icon and hope for the best, setting the expanse of sea in front of the boat aglow with artificial light.

“I found the headlights!”

“I’m real proud of you, sweetheart, but we’ve got a situation here! Drive!”

“Got it!” The big lever at the side of the steering wheel looks kind of like the gear changer on an automatic car, so you push it into what you hope is drive.

***

The engine rumbles louder and the boat jerks into a higher gear, Sam having to brace himself so his head doesn’t smack into the gunwale.

“There you go!” he yells to her. “Just don’t kill us, please.”

“Shut up!” She removes her hand from the wheel long enough to flip him off, before returning her hands to the ten-and-two position.

It’s wrong for him to be grinning right now, isn’t it? He’s a bad man.

The first drops of rain, light kisses in the dark, patter down onto Sam’s skin, gentle in direct opposition to the churning water beneath him. The wind picks up, clearing the clouds away from the moon for a few seconds. There’s a huge rock formation glinting in the silvery light, almost an island in its own right, coming up to the port side. It’s too far away to worry about right now, but hopefully she isn’t going to crash them into it.

Just as he thinks that, the movement of the boat smooths out as she gets more of a feel for it, cutting through the water with a soft purr. She makes quite the getaway driver. Is she ever going to stop surprising him?

She can’t stop their foes from closing in, though.

The enemy boat is close enough now for him to hear their shouting and hollering. It’s a language Sam's not overly familiar with, but he doesn’t need to be a linguist to understand what their whooping means.

It’s a trouble he knows only too well.

Pirates. Fucking, god damn pirates. He’s had enough of them for a lifetime.

They open fire, peppering the side of the boat with bullet holes. She yelps, and the boat careens with her distress, a wave of salt cresting the hull and slopping onto the deck.

“You hit?”

“Not yet!”

Attagirl.

He pops a few shots at the pirates from behind cover, to show them he has teeth, too. But they’re gaining. He can’t hold them off alone.

Muzzle-flash pierces the darkness like a needle, the pirates returning fire. The metal of the hull crumples where it’s hit, shells pinging and rattling on the deck.

He empties a clip into the pirate’s boat, to no effect. Gunsmoke mingles with the salty air in a familiar cocktail, and for a second, it’s like he’s back in the Indian Ocean with Nathan at the helm.

He can’t let this end the same way.

They’re running out of time.

The pirates have a faster boat and a more skilled person sailing it. The two of them are outnumbered.

What are their options?

He’d sacrifice himself for her in a heartbeat, but that’s just his reckless nature talking. It won’t work, she needs him.

Come on, think.

Lightning streaks across the sky, brightening the dark ocean for a moment. It’s just one moment, but it’s enough for him to start putting a plan together.

The rocky outcropping on their left! They could climb it, maybe. It’s big enough to hide them while they radio Victor for help.

Now to get her to agree.

“Hey!” He rushes to her in the cockpit. “We need to abandon ship.”

Her eyes widen like saucers. “What?”

“They’re going to shoot us full of holes if we keep on like this.”

“But we’re in the middle of the ocean.”

“Oh, are we? Never mind, then.”

“Sam!”

He points to the rocky islet. “I think we can make it over there. You up for another swimming lesson, princess?”

Her mouth hangs open for a second. “And this is the only way?”

“Unless you want to be taken captive by pirates. I don’t think I need to tell you what to expect if that happens.”

“Oh, god. All right, what do we do?”

“Leave the headlights and the accelerator on, when we’re closer to the island, we jump overboard.”

“And hope they keep following the boat and not us?”

“Pretty much.”

She nods, more to herself than him, and meets his eyes. “Why is it that whenever we go anywhere, I end up cold and wet?”

“Next time, look for something that’s hidden in a desert.”

It’s almost time. Just a few more seconds.

He helps her up onto the side of the boat, and both of them gaze into the stormy water below. If he doesn’t want to jump in there, he can only imagine how she feels about it.

No time for uncertainties.

“Now!” He launches himself over the side of the boat, into the freezing depths below.


	12. Chapter 12

The water is fucking freezing. Somehow, for the second time in as many days, you’re swimming for your life through the stone-cold night-waters of the Mediterranean.

This time, there’s the added challenge of an angry storm whipping the sea as you haul yourself through it, guided only by the occasional flash of lightning. You realign yourself with the mass of rocky cliffs and keep moving.

Just keep moving!

Sam’s out here with you, somewhere, but staying afloat in the churning water and the downpour is taking all of your concentration, so you don’t have a fix on him right now.

He’ll be okay. Please, let him be okay.

The boatful of pirates—fucking pirates chasing you, is this real life?—have taken your bait for now, but the two of you need to get out of the water before they find your motorboat empty.

The water becomes shallower as you claw your way to the islet. You just need another bolt of lightning to orient yourself, so you can find somewhere to climb up onto land.

“Where are you?” Sam’s voice, chopped by the wind, but nearby. He calls your name.

“I’m here!” You wade across the insular shelf, looking all around. Where is he? You can’t see him anywhere.

“Up here!”

You look up, aflush with relief to find Sam on a ledge above you, arm outstretched for you to grab onto.

“You’re too high up!”

“Just jump, I’ve got you!”

You kick through the weight of the water, getting closer. Can you jump high enough? How the hell did he get up there, anyway?

“Come on!”

“Stop rushing me!” You propel yourself towards him, jumping as best as you can from calf-high water, gripping onto his bicep with all the strength you can muster.

He hauls you up and over the edge with incredible ease, and then you’re lying on the rocks beside him, soaked and panting.

“Are you all right?” He leans over you, cupping your cheek in his palm and looking into your eyes.

You’d enjoy this staring contest a lot more if you weren’t so exposed to the elements. “I’m fine.”

He stands and offers you his hand, pulling you to your feet on the slippery outcropping. “I think there’s a cave back here, come on.”

He takes you by the hand, and you grip him like a lifeline as he leads you beneath an overhang of rock. You both duck under, finding yourselves in a pitch-black cavern. It’s impossible to determine the size of it in the dark.

There’s a _clink_ and then Sam’s face swims into view, lit in gold by the flame of his lighter.

“What do we do now?” you ask.

He shrugs, the flame bobbing with his movement. “Wait for the storm to pass, I guess.”

And then what? Saying it aloud would make your hopelessness palpable, so you heave a sigh instead.

“Come over here,” he murmurs, going to sit down and lean his back against the stone wall.

“Okay,” you say just as quietly, following the light and sinking to sit beside him.

He flicks the lighter closed, plunging you into solid darkness. “I don’t want them to see the light.” There’s the chirp of the radio and then crackling static. “Damn storm’s got this thing scrambled. Are you cold?”

“Freezing.” Your skin is raised all over in goosebumps, clammy in your soaked clothing.

“Give me your hands.”

You reach out for him in the dark, your fingers finding his and curling around them. He rubs the backs of your hands with his palms, imparting some of his warmth to your numb skin.

“Th-thank you,” you manage through your chattering teeth.

“Screw it,” he mutters. “I swear, this isn’t a line, okay? But we should stick close together for warmth.”

You might not need to, now; your cheeks are suddenly hot enough to heat the entire cave. If pressed, you could come up with some creative ways to stay warm…

Oh, behave.

You hide your anticipation with a wry laugh. “Are you hitting on me? Because I have to say, your timing sucks.”

He laughs too, so close the warm puff of his breath tickles your nose. “Oh, honey. When I hit on you, you’ll know about it.”

“When?”

“What?”

“You said ‘when I hit on you,’ not ‘if.’ Should I be expecting some grand, romantic gesture, or—”

“Just shut up and come here before we both freeze our asses off.” He throws an arm around your shoulders and tugs you in closer.

“All right, all right.” You surrender and lean in to him, but it’s no good.

He must notice the problem too, because he says “We’re wearing too many layers for this to work.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely coming on to me,” you say, your heart pounding.

“Just take your jacket off.”

You do as you’re told, leaning forward and shrugging out of the sopping garment. He slips out of his jacket too, and when you return to your position against his chest, the fit is much more intimate.

With his clothes soaked and skin-tight, he must look just filthy. What you wouldn’t give to see him. Why are you never in a position to admire him when he’s all wet?

His breath is hot on the back of your neck, making the hairs there stand on end. Can he tell how antsy you are?

“It’s going to be okay,” he says into your ear, perhaps mistaking your restlessness for panic. He starts to rub what he must think are soothing circles into your shoulders with his thumbs. “Just relax.”

How are you supposed to relax with him petting you like this? As if it wasn’t bad enough that you’re pressed together with no room for air between you, now he’s got his hands all over you like he’s at a petting zoo.

“I’m fine.” It comes out half choked-up, and not believable at all, only making him more concerned.

“Honestly, it won’t seem so bad once the storm’s over. You’ll see.”

“I’m fine!”

You’re learning to focus on the positives. You’re alive, snuggled up with Sam, and not trapped in a claustrophobic crypt under the earth. This is practically a seaside resort. As long as you don’t think about the danger you’re in, you’re okay.

He lets go of your arms. “All right, sheesh. I was trying to be comforting.”

For how much it was making you squirm, you weren’t ready for him to stop touching you. You roll your head onto his shoulder, your forehead resting against his scratchy jaw. “I’m not a china doll. If I say I’m okay, then I’m okay. Believe me, you’ll know about it the moment I’m not.”

“I worry about you. It’s kind of my job.”

“I know.”

The reminder that you’re paying him for his time (or, at least, you will once you’ve found the cestus) cools you off somewhat. How much of his concern is just professional curtesy, and how much stems from any actual affection he feels for you?

His arms close around you, and your fingers wrap around his wrist. His pulse is almost as fast as yours. Does that count as an answer?

***

Her gentle touch against his skin could drive Sam wild, under different circumstances, he’s sure. But he’s trying to say something, here.

“I’m not just talking about keeping you alive, either.” It’s like he’s telling her a secret. “How are you keeping it all together? When we met, a loud noise was enough to freak you out, and now—”

“Now, what?”

“You’re tougher, somehow. I just… I want you to know, I won’t lose any respect for you if you show weakness, or whatever. You don’t have to keep up a façade for my sake. I’m here for you.” He never goes full chick-flick like this, he’s out of his element.

She scoffs. “I barely know what’s a façade anymore and what’s my real face, what makes you think you do?”

He’s not one to volunteer information about his life, but he wants her to know. She’ll understand him.

“I have a history of putting people’s feelings aside to get what I want, all right? I know the signs. It wasn’t worth it, and it never is, so don’t go putting your own feelings aside to get what you think you want. No treasure’s worth dying over.”

“’What I think I want?’ This expedition is everything to me. Why do you think I’m here? For fun?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean—”

She sits forward, breaking the awkward embrace. “I’ve put everything into this—I sank my whole inheritance into this! My professional life is in the shit, I’ve alienated every friend I ever had, and I’ve not had a normal relationship for fucking years because no one understands that I need to find Aphrodite’s fucking cestus.” She grows quieter. “If I don’t see this through, then I’ll have nothing else… It’s like if I don’t have this, then I don’t even know who I am anymore. Do you know what I mean?”

He whistles lowly. “You just described me word-for-word, sweetheart. I lost thirteen years of my life chasing my own treasure, and when I got back, it was all I cared about. I didn’t care who I had to hurt to get it, so believe me, I know how you feel.”

“Thirteen years?” she says in a small voice.

No going back now. If she doesn’t look at him the same way from now on, well, they would never have worked out anyway.

“I was in prison, in Panama.”

She tenses. “Oh, god. What did you do? Are you an axe-murderer?”

“What? No! Jesus, nothing like that. The job went wrong and I ended up taking the fall for it, kind of literally, actually. I was stuck in that shithole for thirteen fucking years.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Yeah.”

Well, there it is. It was stupid of him to think that an intelligent, beautiful young woman like her could see anything in an old, washed-up has-been like him.

No doubt she’d rather take her chances freezing to death on the other side of the cave.

Instead, she shifts closer to him, her back flush to his chest. “So, does that mean you went thirteen years without…?”

Ah, hell. That’s not what he thought she’d say. But, all right. He can play along, princess.

“Without what? A good pair of shoes?”

She snorts. “You know what I mean.”

“There was a prolonged dry-spell… a drought, if you will.”

She giggles against him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. That’s rough.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I read a lot.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, what do you want me to say? Do you have any other extremely personal questions you want to ask?”

“Excuse me for wanting to know something about the man I’m cosied up with, in the dark, miles from civilisation.”

She’s got him there.

He winds his arms around her middle. “All right. Ask away, dear.”

“How long ago was this? How old were you when they locked you up?”

“I was twenty-five.” It feels like an eternity ago.

She lays her head back on his shoulder, her frame wracked with giggles again. “Shit, I would’ve only been eleven then.”

“You’re kidding.”

If he didn’t feel ancient beside her before, he sure as shit does now! She was in the sixth grade while he was dicking around in Panama with Nathan and Rafe? Why is this only just now occurring to him?

“Relax,” she says. “It’s not like I’m eleven now! I’m looking at thirty!”

He can’t help laughing. “You’re making it worse! Do you know how long ago it was that I was looking at thirty?”

“Yes. I can count, you know.”

“God, what year were you born? You’ve probably never heard real music in your life, have you?”

She scoffs. “You know, one of my favourite things about music is that you can listen to it whenever you want. Sometimes years, even decades after it was released! Isn’t that great?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“The eighties don’t belong to you, you know.”

He wants to grab her face and kiss her.

She’d probably let him.

But wouldn’t it be a little opportunistic? They’re supposed to be huddling for warmth. Is he overthinking? Would he be so conflicted if she was ten years older (or if he was ten years younger)?

Does the age difference really bother him this much? Or is it because he knows where this leads?

Sure, maybe once this is all over, the two of them will go to bed together. But what then? Promises to stay in touch that are never kept? Dwindling phone calls back and forth until one of them just stops answering?

Familiar territory for him, but is it enough anymore?

Is she his midlife crisis? Why couldn’t he just buy a red sportscar like every other balding loser his age?

Unaware of his inner turmoil, she traces the back of his hand with her fingertips, her touch idly tickling. He catches her hand and laces their fingers together.

“What does your tattoo mean?” she says.

“Which one?”

“I meant the one on your neck, you have others?”

He chuckles. “One day, if you’re good, I’ll show you.”

She turns her head towards him. “Oh, really?”

Too real. Abort.

He clears his throat. “So, uh, the neck tattoo? I got it when I was inside.”

“I knew it,” she mutters. “And they’re little birds?”

“No, they’re big, manly birds. In flight. You know, free.”

“Free.”

“Yeah.”

She snuggles further into him, and there’s heat between them everywhere they touch. “That’s very cool,” she says.

He holds her until she falls asleep in his arms, and without thinking about it, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

For good or ill, she’s in his system now.


	13. Chapter 13

There’s a beeping, and the sizzle of static. A man’s voice, there and gone like a dream.

You stir from sleep, groggy and cold. And alone.

“Sam?” Your voice echoes off the walls of the cave.

“Over here.” He steps into view, standing in the mouth of the cave, framed in the milky white morning light. It’s still early.

“What are you doing?” You heave yourself to your feet, aching all over. You stretch your arms over your head, your muscles tight and sore.

He waves the hand-held radio at you, a sour look on his face.

“Are you trying to contact Victor?”

“Been trying on and off all night, but I couldn’t get through." He huffs. "I thought it was the storm, but the piece of shit must be busted.”

“I thought I heard something just now, though.”

“Yeah, every now and then I get a few words, but it’s all a garbled mess.” He groans and lets the radio clatter to the ground.

He’s not been this frustrated since you argued beneath the Temple of Aphrodite, and it sets you on edge. You pick the radio up again before he can kick it into the ocean in a fit of rage.

You fiddle with the buttons. “What’s next? Where even are we?”

“No fucking idea and no fucking idea,” he says. “But we need to get off this rock.”

In the cold light of morning, he looks rough. The swelling on his black eye has come down some, but now both eyes carry bags of tiredness beneath them. The chivalrous burn mark on his arm that had begun to heal, is now soggy-looking from last night’s impromptu dip in the ocean.

He’s all right, isn't he? No matter how much of a brave face he puts on, no one can be calm and jovial in all situations.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, curling your hand around his bicep and rubbing your thumb back and forth over his sleeve.

He looks down at your hand where it’s touching him, a weird expression on his face. When he looks at you, it’s with a phoney grin that doesn’t convince you for a second.

“Hey, I’m fine. Sorry for being grouchy, a night in a cave will do that to a man.” He squeezes your hand and then removes it from his arm.

The rejection of your touch shouldn’t sting as much as it does. He’s a big, tough man, maybe he doesn’t appreciate being comforted like that.

Now who’s showing a façade and hiding their weakness? He’s such a hypocrite.

The two of you stand there, awkward, until he clears his throat.

“I’m gonna go check out the rest of the island, if it can even be called that,” he says. “You should stay here, keep trying to get through to Victor on that damn radio. I won’t be gone long.” He turns on his heel and starts walking away from you.

“Sam, wait!”

He stops, looking at you over his shoulder, and your heart seizes with some ineffable emotion. There’s just something about him, standing there, battle-scarred, and strong, and handsome. What would it be like to call him yours?

He’s still waiting for you to say something.

“Just… be careful.” You cringe at how cliché you sound, but what more can you say? You’re not even sure what you feel.

“I will be.” He grins at you, and this time it reaches his eyes.

You watch him go, the stupid, gorgeous man, until he scales the rocks like a lizard, up and out of sight.

Why haven’t you kissed him yet?

The way he held you last night, murmuring in your ear, it was enough to set you tingling with anticipation. You want his hands on you again.

But if the fling fizzles out as fast as it starts, it would make the rest of your journey together a little awkward.

Priorities! Cestus first, sex later.

That was probably Hephaestus’ thought process, anyway.

The day is clearing up, the sun finally coming out in full force, and the sky is a beautiful azure blue. You’re not so good at telling the time without a clock, but the sun hasn’t passed above your head, so that means it’s not noon yet.

Still, it’s been a while since Sam left. The islet isn’t big enough for him to be gone this long, is it?

So much of this little adventure consists of you waiting around for Sam, but you’re not used to it yet. How can you be? Sure, he’s strong, and sly, and sneaky, but you can’t not worry about him. You just can’t.

You’ve been fruitlessly tinkering with the radio for a while, and there’s been nothing, not even a scrambled voice. You’re so isolated out here.

Undiscovered islands are scarce in the Mediterranean. Where is this place? It’s more of a humongous rock than anything else, but it probably still has a name, right?

There’s a murmur on the water, interrupting the lapping waves and the wailing gulls. It’s getting closer. It’s a boat.

You retreat further into the cave you spent the night in, out of sight, your pulse pounding in your ears.

It could be help.

It could be pirates.

You lie still, listening. If you strain your ears, you can make out men’s voices.

They’re not friendly.

Dread lies heavy in your stomach like a cannonball. Fucking pirates.

Sam’s still out there somewhere. Where is he?

You wish he was here.

***

Sam should have headed back by now. She'll be worried, but he needs some time to himself. He needs to think.

They’re in a right old mess again, and it’s up to him to save them both.

He’s battered and bruised, and it’s not like he can hide it from her. She’s got enough on her plate without worrying about him too, but she still finds it in her to comfort him, when it should be the other way around.

He has to keep reminding himself that he’s only known her for four days, but last night, he’d fantasised. In that little cave, isolated from the rest of the world, with the storm hammering down on the stone outside, he’d let himself imagine what they could become if they had the time.

They’d have more adventures, for a start. She’s curious, with a passion for knowledge, and he’s got that wanderlust in his bones. How sweet would it be to have the same partner for multiple trips? Someone to make memories with? They’d cultivate a rapport unseen since the old days of his treasure hunting with Nathan.

Assuming they still click once they’ve been together, and it’s not just a case of him needing to get her out of his system.

He wants her. He’s wanted other women, for their bodies, or their faces, or their minds, but he wants her for her everything.

He’s greedy for the future she represents. If only they can get off this rock.

The humming of a boat’s motor pulls him out of his reverie. On instinct, he throws himself down behind a raised part of the rocky cliff, listening.

Fucking pirates.

They’ve snuck up on him while he was busy moping, and they’re almost ashore. He’s climbed too high up, too far away from the little cave where he left her. He won’t make it back in time, not without being seen.

Think, think.

He lays low and keeps listening, his body taut like a jungle cat hiding in the brush.

There are two men talking back and forth. Only two? He can take two bozo pirates in his sleep.

Sure, there could be others, but the only quiet pirates Sam’s ever met have been dead ones.

He slinks over the ledge and drops down a level, creeping along the rocks without making a sound. If he can ambush them just right, this should be a piece of cake.

They clamber onto the island, stumbling over the uneven rocks. He has to get to them before they reach her.

Both of the pirates are brawny, and armed to the teeth, with skin tanned by committing unsavoury acts beyond counting under the Mediterranean sun.

It’s almost nostalgic to see them. Years ago, Sam and Nathan were goofing around off the coast of Chile, and they had a run-in with these Argentinian marauders…

He wipes the wistful smile off his face. Focus.

“We’re not going to find anybody on this fucking rock.”

“Will you just shut the fuck up, and stop moaning?”

They haven’t seen him yet. He can use that to his advantage. Time to do what he does best; go balls to the wall and hope God’s looking out for him.

He shimmies out onto the ledge above their heads, and draws his gun.

Pirate A might have heard him move, as he starts turning his head in Sam’s direction, but it doesn’t matter. He gets a bullet in the temple and crumples like a ragdoll.

“The fuck?” Pirate B raises his rifle, as if to avenge his fallen comrade.

Sam doesn’t give him the chance. He squeezes the trigger a second time, shooting the ne’er-do-well dead before he can even set eyes on his attacker.

With the gunshot lingering in the air, Sam jumps down from the rocky ridge, hitting the ground at the same time as Pirate B’s lifeless body.

Fuck yeah. Still got it. Human steamroller coming through, people!

Caught up in patting himself on the back, he doesn’t notice the lumbering footfalls crunching over the stones until it’s almost too late.

A great ogre of a man, the elusive Pirate C, charges Sam like a pissed off rhino, a machete glinting in one of his meaty paws.

He doesn’t even seem to notice the bullet Sam puts in his shoulder, lurching forward despite the wound, and swinging his machete at Sam’s throat.

Sam jumps back, scrambling to create distance, and brings his gun up again.

He manages to pop another round into the giant, this time in the other shoulder. “You like that, you big bastard?”

Unhindered by the matching, glistening, bloody holes in his shoulders, Pirate C advances.

He barrels into a Sam like a freight train, knocking his gun flying, and slamming him hard into the rocky ground.

Sam’s too old for this shit.

The pirate casts off his machete, preferring to use his bare hands, and Sam struggles with him. He's a tall guy, unused to being on his back in a fight, but he's not going to let that hinder him. Lucky for him, the behemoth is more of a sadist than a tactician, sacrificing his height and reach advantage to take the fight to the ground.

The stench of the guy is unbelievable, old sweat and blood congealing with the putridness of his breath. He can’t let this monster get his dirty mitts on her.

It’s not often he’s noble, but his moral compass is pointing squarely north this time.

Sam grabs the him by the back of the neck and pulls him in, holding the bastard close so he can’t throw any punches or try to strangle him.

He underestimates the pirate’s brute strength.

Pirate C stands, bringing Sam with him as if he weighed nothing. He wraps his huge hands around Sam’s throat and squeezes.

The beast of a man grins wide, showing uneven, discoloured teeth, and the reason he’s gone unheard until now. He’s had his tongue cut out.

Sam claws at the pirate’s hands, his legs dangling, and his vision darkening. Blood rushes in his ears, as he crushes his throat harder.

He swings for a punch, connecting with Pirate C’s jaw with little force.

This is it.

He’s sorry.

He’s never been sorrier.

A shot rings through the air, loud even to Sam’s cloudy ears.

Another.

And another.

More.

The big brute releases him, dropping him onto the rocks like a broken toy. He lies there in a heap, gasping.

Pirate C collapses next to him, gurgling, blood streaming from the fresh wounds in his back.

Sam massages his burning throat, and turns to see his saviour.

It’s her.

Her face is expressionless, her stance just like he showed her. His discarded pistol wobbles in her hands.

She lets it fall with a clatter, and then, besides the rush of the waves on the rocks, there is silence.


	14. Chapter 14

You should be crying and screaming. You should be sick to your stomach, maybe falling onto all fours and vomiting.

But you’re not.

You’re cold and empty inside, like a barren wasteland. You swallow the lump in your throat, and wrap your arms around yourself.

Sam climbs to his feet, and approaches you like you’re a spooked deer. He looks surprised, and sad, and you can’t stand it. You let him enter your personal space, and even allow him to sweep you up into his arms, and hold you to his chest.

What you can’t abide, however, is when he noses through your hair, and whispers in your ear, “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

You struggle out of his grasp. “No, it isn’t. Not for him, at least.” You gesture to the giant man’s corpse.

Is there anyone that would be saddened by his death? Did he have a mother that loved him?

Sam grips your shoulders, and shakes you until you look at him, like he’s done before. “Listen to me. You saved my life and yours. He would’ve killed me, and then he would’ve raped and murdered you. You didn’t have a choice.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m so sorry you had to do that. I should’ve been there to protect you, and I wasn’t. But you know what? I’m glad that you did! We’re alive because of you, and these piece-of-shit pirates won’t ever hurt anyone else.”

You try to shrug him off. “Stop coddling me.”

He frowns at you, but he removes his hands from your shoulders. “Are you okay?”

You squeeze your eyes shut so no tears can escape. “No, I’m not. I just shot a man to death.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It was horrible. He wouldn’t go down, so I had to keep firing and firing…”

He moves like he wants to hug you again, so you hold your hand up to stop him.

“I know it was necessary. I know it was the right thing to do. And I know it’s going to stay with me for the rest of my life, but we don’t have time to worry about it right now.” You square your shoulders. “As we speak, Jackson and Clemens are bumbling around Maghdouché, and eventually they’re going to stumble upon my cestus.”

His mouth hangs open like he can’t quite decide what to say. “You... still want to go to Lebanon?”

“Of course.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy. “This has gone way too far, okay? I don’t think you’re thinking clearly right now. We should cut our losses, and get you home safe and sound.”

“Cut our losses? Are you insane? It’s because it’s gone this far that we need to see it through to the end!”

“You can always turn around! It’s not worth it. No treasure is worth losing yourself over!”

“If I go home now, the blood on my hands is for nothing. Don’t you understand?”

“Of course, I understand! I’ve been where you are now!”

You hug yourself tighter, looking to him reluctantly. “And what did you do?”

He clenches his jaw, turning away. “I didn’t let anything get in my way. I double-crossed my partner, and I lied to my brother. To get him to leave his wife, and come treasure hunting with me. I killed almost an entire army-for-hire. I put my brother, his wife, and Victor in danger over and over and over, I… I just didn’t know when to stop.”

“So now you do, is that it?”

“Yes. I’m telling you; as someone who knows, it’s not worth it.”

You swallow. “Maybe for you it’s not, but I have to do this. I can’t give up now, I’ve come too far.”

He says your name softly.

“I’m going to Maghdouché, Sam. With or without your help.” You soften your face and voice for him. “But I would like your help. Please, come with me.”

He scowls. “Fine, have it your way.” He turns, and heads down to the shore, where the pirates left their boat. “We should get out of here before more of those assholes show up.”

Well, that didn’t go well. Why did he have to fight you on this? Although, as much as his disdainful glare hurts, it’s preferable to him smothering you in sweet nothings. He comforts you like you’re a shattered doll, and all it does is remind you of the things you should feel, but don’t.

The person you were when you set out on this journey is as dead as the pirate you killed. The last piece of her died when you pulled the trigger of Sam’s gun. The blood on your hands is your own, and it has to mean something.

You’re no longer a thing that feels, and it can’t be for nothing. You owe it to the girl who dedicated her life to researching the Greek goddess of love and beauty. If you go home now as this hollow husk, you’ll regret it more than you could ever regret what happened here today.

Your old self is tied up with Aphrodite’s cestus now; to find one is to find the other. It’s your only chance for fulfilment.

Last night in the cave seems like it happened in another world, in another timeline. It was okay to think and to feel there, but not here, and not now. You need to get your head in the game, and keep it there.

You’ll go to Lebanon with Sam. Maybe after you get what you came for, you’ll wrap yourself around him like ivy, and see if you’re still capable of feeling something.

His warning still rings in your ears as you pick up his gun, and tuck it into the back of your pants. You collect the pirate’s discarded machete as well, giving it an experimental swing for good measure.

Things will be different for you. Your journey will be worth it, even if Sam’s wasn’t. It has to be.

***

It’s with a heavy heart that Sam climbs into the boat. The pirate’s have returned the boat he rented, a little more scuffed and hole-ridden than when he paid for it, but still in working order.

He can’t decide who he’s more pissed at, her for being so stubborn, or himself for letting any of this happen in the first place. He’s just going to be pissed at the both of them and be done with it.

It’s not like he’s holding a grudge against her. She’s in shock. She killed a man, something she probably never expected she’d have to do in her life. If he’d been quicker, or stronger, maybe she wouldn’t have had to.

She’s being an ass about it, though.

He tried comforting her, and she wouldn’t have it. He tried talking her around, and she wouldn’t have it. Now he understands how Nathan must have felt in Libertalia; she’s just as crazy as he was, chasing after Avery’s treasure.

She’s a big girl, and she can make her own mistakes, but he doesn’t have to like it. He also doesn’t have to like the way she dismissed him, and his advice as totally irrelevant. He’d laid himself bare for her there, told her about one of his deepest regrets, and the journey he’d taken to improve himself. It was nothing to her.

She jumps into the boat behind him, and he ignores her. To keep his anger aimed inward, he needs to not look at her for a while. He wants to shake some sense into her, make her see that she’s worth so much more than what some pompous professors think of her, and then squeeze her until there’s no room left for bad feelings. But he can’t.

The spell they were under in the dark last night is broken in the beaming sun. However close they may have been then, they’re miles apart now, and neither of them are brave enough to bridge the gap. He doesn’t go in for any of this touchy-feely crap anyway, so why is he getting so bent out of shape over some girl?

God damn it, he’s gone soft.

“I still have your gun,” she says, holding it out for him.

“Thanks.” He takes it, without meeting her eyes. Why is it so awkward to talk to her now?

“I used all the bullets.”

“Yeah, I know.” He searches through their supplies, most of which have been overturned and scattered across the boat’s deck. He finds a box of ammo and reloads his pistol, then jams it into its holster.

“We should get moving.” Her voice has a dull, lifeless quality to it.

“Right.” He turns from her, and takes his place in the cockpit. It’s going to be a long ride.

A couple of hours of silence pass, before Sam sees land on the horizon. Lebanon, presumably. He would ask her about this Maghdouché place they’re headed to, since he knows nothing about it, but the idea of striking up a conversation with her right now makes him prickle with distaste.

Sooner or later, one of them will have to extend an olive branch to the other, but he’s not ready for it to be him.

The ocean mocks him with its crystalline, turquoise waters. Like it doesn’t try to drown unsuspecting adventurers, or allow marauders to sail and plunder with impunity. What would Poseidon make of their journey across his realm, or Neptune, or any of his other incarnations? Would he send a tidal wave their way, putting them out of their collective misery and into watery graves?

He misses his brother. As soon as they get somewhere with a phone, he’s calling him.

Fizzing static saves him from his internal disquiet.

She unhooks the little radio from her belt. “Hello? Victor? Can you hear me?”

“...is that you, darlin? What the hell’s going on with you kids?” It’s chopped up by the bad signal, but it’s definitely Victor’s voice.

“The radio’s been on the fritz, but we’re both okay,” she says.

Sam holds his arm out to her and she nods.

“Sam wants to talk to you, I’ll pass you over.”

Sam turns back to focus on steering, and brings the radio up to his mouth. “Hey, Victor.”

“Hey yourself. Where the hell are you two? I haven’t heard from you since you left.”

“Calm down, don’t blow a gasket. Everything’s fine. We’re almost to Lebanon.”

“You haven’t arrived yet?”

“There was a slight, uh…” He chances a glance over his shoulder at her.

She’s leaning on the edge of the boat, gazing out to sea.

“A slight hiccough, but we’re back on route.”

“Why am I not surprised? Well, what happened?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Hmph. Fine, I’ll let you go. Look out for her, you hear?”

“Of course.” He hooks the radio onto his pants, returning both hands to the wheel.

Once more, a thick, cloying silence overtakes them. They’re almost to shore, and the coastline is close enough now for him to pick out details.

Just as he’s resigning himself to the fact that he’s going to have to talk to her before they land, she surprises him, by coming to stand by his side at the helm. Pirate C’s machete gleams on her belt, and a fresh pang of guilt bubbles up inside of him.

She stares ahead, resolute, not sparing him a glance.

“You see that hill over there?” she says, pointing. “That’s where the shrine is. We’re headed to a place called Our Lady of Awaiting. Can we dock anywhere nearby?”

He follows her finger, finding the raised area not too far inland. There’s a conveniently deserted strip of beach directly below, with jagged rocks big enough to tuck the boat behind.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he says.

She nods stiffly. “Clemens must already be there. Do you think we’ll have a fight on our hands?”

He narrows his eyes. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”


	15. Chapter 15

There it is, Our Lady of Awaiting. The site and its tower sit proudly atop the hill somewhere, out of sight for now. Hope and excitement flutter in the back of your mind, before the blanket of unease wraps around you again, smothering all other feelings.

Sam guides the boat through the large rocks near the shoreline, gliding into a little nook between two of them that will keep it hidden from most angles.

Wordless, the two of you sort through your scattered supplies, deciding what to take ashore with you. You find the bag with the changes of clothes for you and Sam, and check everything is still in there. It seems fine.

Even pirates are above panty snatching, apparently.

“I’ve got everything,” Sam says bluntly. “Don’t get the bag wet.”

You don’t reply, following his lead into the chest-high water, holding the duffel bag on your shoulder and wading towards the beach. He doesn’t look back as he traipses up through the pebbles on the shore, leaving you behind in the surf.

How long would it take him to notice if you slipped and drowned? Would he feel bad?

What the hell? You pull your mind back from the dark place it was sinking into, and follow Sam onto land.

The scruffy coastline has little sand to speak of, devolving into stony dirt after a few steps inland. Ragged bushes cling to the earth, and there is a little copse of trees and shrubs that could be a good place to change your clothes in relative privacy.

You dump the duffel bag in the brush and pull out a towel, drying off, before stripping and redressing in record time. Sam’s just behind you doing the same, if the shuffling sounds are any indication.

Yesterday, you might have peeked over your shoulder. You’d have wondered if he was sneaking glances at you, too.

You don’t have space for any of that now.

Sam clears his throat, and you turn to face him.

“Here.” He’s dressed, holding some protein bars in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other.

“Thanks.” It’s more of a grunt than a word. You take the proffered rations and tear into one of the bars with your teeth. It’s chewy like raisins, but tastes of cardboard.

He lowers himself to the ground, downing his bottle of water.

You frown at him. “We should get moving.”

“Just give me a minute, will you?” He stuffs a protein bar into his mouth, and pulls a roll of gauze from his backpack.

Oh.

He’s got some new scrapes from his scuffle with the big bastard pirate, and the burn on his arm needs some attention. It’s much worse than your matching mark, which is healing nicely.

He wraps his arm, movements awkward and fumbling. You kneel down beside him, and he shoots you a look.

“Let me help,” you say, looking down at your lap.

He’s going to turn you away.

But instead, he pushes the roll of bandages into your hands. You meet his eyes, and he clenches his jaw, saying nothing and looking away.

“I’m returning the favour.” You reach out and pull his arm into your lap.

Was it really only yesterday that he patched you up in his hotel room? It’s like a lifetime ago.

The swelling has gone down on his arm, and the blisters are less angry.

“I don’t think it’s infected. Does it still hurt?”

He shrugs with his other shoulder. “It’s not so bad.”

You root around in his backpack, until you find another water bottle. Lifting his arm, you trickle the water over the burn, rinsing away the salt, sand and sweat. You pat it dry with a towel, and wrap the bandage around, getting it snug without being tight, and secure it.

He withdraws his arm the moment you’re done.

“How does that feel?”

He clenches his fist a couple times to test the fit. “Pretty good. Thanks.”

“I’m not done with you, yet. Hold still.” You go for medical rather than nurturing, producing the antiseptic wipes from the rucksack to clean up the open cut on his jaw.

He sits motionless under your ministrations, but the rasp of his stubble makes the touch suddenly seem intimate.

You pull away. “You’ll have a full beard soon.”

He scratches his jaw. “Does it make me look rugged and handsome?”

Violent purple bruises, in the shape of the fat oaf’s fingers, have surfaced on Sam’s throat. You grit your teeth, and blink your eyes rapidly against the welling emotions.

You focus on the rolling waves at your back, the birds singing their merry songs, the rustling leaves in the wind.

All the beauty in the world couldn’t touch you now.

You get up and dust yourself off. “Are you ready to go?”

“One second.” He grabs a pack of gum from his bag. He opens it and hands you a stick. “I didn’t pack toothpaste.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?” You contort your face into a smirk, the expression foreign on your face. You’re like a wax figure being melted down, your features reforming into someone else.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins back at you, unaware of your discomfort.

You stash your bags in some shrubbery and straighten up, shielding your eyes from the sun as you look up towards your destination. If you can scrabble through the brush for a while, you might find a footpath that will lead you up the hill. At least it should be hard to get lost, all you have to do is keep heading up.

“Do you think if we just head in that direction, we’ll come out somewhere near the hill?” you say, pointing.

He jumps to his feet and takes a look around. “Probably.”

You can do this. You killed someone this morning, this should be a piece of cake.

The two of you begin your trek further inland, halted before you’ve really begun by a wide thicket of thorny vines and brambles, separating the rocky beach from the rest of Maghdouché.

“Give me your machete,” Sam says, holding out his hand for it.

Your machete. It’s yours. You won it fair and square. You unhook it from your belt, but you don’t hand it over.

“I can do it.”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot, but he stands aside. “Be my guest.”

You slice at the vines, putting your back into it, and with each leafy snap, it’s the guard’s neck breaking back at the temple.

Every hack of the brambles is a bullet that’s been fired. Every nick of the delicate skin on your hands is a piece of yourself chipped away.

In no time at all, a path is cleared for you through the scrub. Will you be the same person when you cross to the other side?

Sam whistles. “Remind me not to get on your bad si—you’re crying.”

He’s right; burning hot tears leave scorching tracks down your face. You strap your blade back to your belt and wipe your eyes.

“I’m fine. Let’s go,” you say, leading the way through the narrow gap you made.

***

Sam follows her through the tangling vines, thorns biting as them as they go. He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet.

On the other side of the thicket is another scraggly patch of land, and the start of their long upward hike. There is also a very climbable-looking rock wall. A shortcut?

He darts around her to inspect the wall. “We can climb up here! It’ll shave some time off our journey.”

She approaches him, looking grumpy as ever. “It’s pretty high.”

“I’ll boost you up, come on.” He beckons her over, not taking any of her crap.

He doubles over and cups his hands, waiting.

She blinks at him, but doesn’t move.

“Not getting any younger over here,” he says.

“All right, all right! I’m coming.” She braces herself with her hands on his shoulders, lifting her booted foot into his laced fingers.

Before she can start bitching again, he heaves her upwards, so she can climb up to the ledge above. She grunts and struggles, before pulling herself up and over.

Sam follows her in no time at all, and finds her lying there, breathing hard.

“What even are you?” she says, panting.

He chuckles. “Not one for climbing, huh?”

She sits up, wiping her brow. “I don’t mind it so much, usually. The climbing wall at the gym is much more ergonomic.”

He snorts. “You did good. Let’s keep going. Here.” He holds out his hand for her, unsure if she’ll take it.

She does, and he pulls her to her feet.

There’s still some hill to climb, and so the two resume their hike.

He might not be able to unpick the trauma she’s experienced these last few days, but at least they’re speaking to each other again. The silence was starting to make him want to scoop out his own eyeballs.

He knows a sure way to keep her talking, though. “So, I have no idea about this place we’re going to. You want to fill me in?”

“Our Lady of Awaiting, remember?" She takes the bait. "There’s a tower honouring the Virgin Mary, and a cave where she supposedly waited for Jesus to finish preaching in Sidon, hence the name.”

There’s that lilt in her voice again when she talks of something she’s passionate about. It’s faint, but it’s there, and he wants to hear it more. It’s infinitely better than the despondent, soulless way she spoke earlier.

“And what does this have to do with Astarte? Wasn’t she Phoenician?”

“There are some ruins of a shrine to Astarte. Originally, this site was hers, but Saint Helena ordered the destruction of anything and everything involving the pagan goddess. So, it was destroyed, and rebuilt into what it is today.”

“If the shrine was destroyed, then what are we looking for?”

The glint in her eye when she answers him is invigorating. “Jackson’s stupid enough to drag Clemens around the ruined old shrine, but I’m not. We’re going to the cave where the Virgin waited. It’s ancient, the kind of ancient we're looking for. If anything here can point us in the right direction, it’ll be in there.”

“Sounds simple enough. What could possibly go wrong?” He can’t ask her what happens if the cestus isn’t here, but maybe something a little broader. “Did those letters from the Cult of Aphrodite ever mention this place?”

“No, they spoke only of Paphos, and their ‘greatest treasure.’ I thought that meant they had the cestus, but we now know it was just an artist’s rendering of the artefact.”

He swallows. Should he say something?

She beats him to it. “Look, I’m not stupid. I’m not saying we’re going to find some ancient lingerie made of spun gold and rubies at the top of this hill. But the temple in Cyprus led us here, you can’t deny that. The Cults of Aphrodite, and Astarte, left a trail for someone to follow, and I have to see it through to the end. I need to know where this ends up, why they bothered in the first place. Maybe the cestus only exists in marble and plaster, but if that’s the case then I need to know it as fact. If I leave this question unanswered, I’ll go insane.” She heaves a sigh, as if a great weight has been lifted from her chest.

He’s almost at a loss for words. Almost. “I’ve got to say, you’ve got me pretty interested, too. We’re in this together. I’ll be here with you to the bitter end, I promise.”

A small smile creeps onto her face, and it makes his heart soar. “Let’s just get to the top of this hill first, shall we?” she says.

It looks like things might be all right, after all. Much like their trek to Our Lady of Awaiting, the only way to go from here is up.


	16. Chapter 16

What will it be like up there, at Our Lady of Awaiting? You’ve only ever seen it in pictures, you’ve never been here in person.

Should you have mentioned that to Sam?

Never mind, you both made it in the end.

you killed a man you killed a man you killed a man you killed a man you killed a man you killed a man

You squeeze your eyes shut and swallow down the bile rising in your throat. Your feelings twist inside of you like a hundred black leeches, wriggling all over each other in their own slime.

You’re a killer. And you’ve come so far away from who you were before, that you’re now foreign in your own body. Never did you think that you’d be the kind of person to throw someone’s life away, to further your own goals.

You’re a selfish bitch and your heart is as dark as the tar at the bottom of a lake.

And the worst part? You’re not even the victim in this! You’re not the one pumped full of bullets!

Can you not even spare a thought for the man you killed? Are you so consumed by self-pity?

You’re pathetic.

you’ve changed you’ve changed you’ve changed you’ve changed you’ve changed you’ve changed

The thoughts creep up on you like the villain in an eighties horror movie, and your eyes snap open in despair. But time isn’t a luxury you can afford, so you keep forcing the feelings down.

“We’re almost to the top,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I—”

A deafening _boom_ shakes even the air around you.

Sam tackles you into a grove of nearby brush, hunching his body over your own until the ground stops rumbling.

He’s so close. The sun has brought out a faint trail of freckles across his nose. He’s warm and solid above you, his muscles taut and his eyes sharp as he surveys your surroundings.

Your heart pounds away in your chest, due only in part to the immediate explosion.

He looks down at you with a start when he notices how intently you’re observing him. “Uh… you okay? You hit your head?”

If you just lifted your head a few centimetres, you’d be kissing.

You avert your eyes, and clear your throat. He gets the message, and rolls off of you.

“I was hoping we were done with explosions.” You sit up and brush your clothes off. “Nice save there, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it. I guess we know where Clemens and Jackson are now.”

“Right! We need to get up there. Now.”

Before you can move, Sam grabs your arm in a firm grip. “At least stick to the bushes and tall grass. They see you and you’re dead,” he says, fixing you with a glare.

You pull away from him and stalk into the undergrowth, dropping into a crouch, raising your eyebrows at him as if to say ‘is this good enough for you?’

Who would have thought you’d ever find yourself scrambling towards the site of an explosion?

But you can’t let Jackson find that cestus. Not after everything he’s done. Not when you’re this close.

Sam’s right on your tail, and together you crest the hill, landing smack in the middle of enemy territory.

“Holy fuck,” you whisper.

The photos never did this place justice. All white sandstone and smooth-lined architecture, with the pale tower stretching towards heaven. Atop this chalky column sits the mother of all Christmas angels; a golden idol of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus.

The people of Maghdouché built a cathedral over the hidden cave you seek, with pale stone arches and a marble Virgin sitting sentry by the entrance.

It’s not this splendour that stuns you, however.

The area is cordoned off with yellow tape screaming DANGER in several languages. Guards mill about in official uniforms, and a crowd of tourists and pilgrims cluster behind a nearby barricade, addressed by none other than Richard Clemens himself.

“Please do not panic,” he says, pompous as usual. “That was merely a controlled detonation. There is nothing to worry about, so please stand back and let my team do their job.”

“What the hell?” You turn to Sam.

He frowns. “Looks like they’re posing as some kind of bomb squad. Pretty good cover if you want to start blowing shit up, I guess.”

“They can do that? What about the real authorities?”

“Fuck You money, remember? He probably used his connections, greased some palms. If you go high enough, get the right person to look the other way, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

“It’s not fair.”

He looks like he’s about to offer you some commiseration, but Clemens’ booming voice fills the area again.

“We are investigating a reported threat to this religious site, I can say no more than that.”

“He’s such a liar.”

“Yeah, something tells me he’s in love with the sound of his own voice. At least we know he hasn’t found the cestus already,” Sam says.

“You’re right.” Maybe you don’t need to despair just yet.

Clemens turns on his heel, away from the rabble, and holds his walkie-talkie to his ear. Whatever he hears must not be to his liking, because his face crumples into a scowl. Still talking into his radio, he begins stomping in your direction.

He’s not stopping.

Has he seen you?

“Sam?”

His name is a panicked breath from your lips, and you look to him for guidance.

“Stay low.” He sinks further into the grass, and you copy him, planting your knees in the dirt so you can be as still as possible.

The gravel crunches under Clemens’ feet as he strides towards your concealment. Sunlight glints off the heavy pistol he wears on his hip.

“What do you mean ‘there’s nothing there?’” he hisses, pacing back and forth, mere inches from where you lie hidden. “I swear to god, Jackson, if this is another wild goose chase—I’ll talk to you later, you’d better have something for me.” He swaps his radio for a buzzing cell phone, swiping his thumb to answer the call. “Darling, impeccable timing, as ever.”

‘Darling?’ This man has a loved one? There’s no affection in his voice when he speaks, however.

“Will you use your tiny woman brain for one second? Unpack your bags, you’re not going anywhere. No, I haven’t found it yet. Calm down, I’m starting detonations. I’ll raze the whole of Maghdouché if I have to.”

So this Mrs Clemens can have the cestus? You’ll die before you let that happen.

***

“No! You can’t!” She jumps out of the bushes, her hands up.

Clemens’ face is a picture as she pops up in front of him. Sam knows just how he feels; he wasn’t expecting it to happen either.

Clemens recovers soon enough and makes to reach for his gun.

“Don’t.” Sam’s already drawn his, covering her on instinct. He glances at her with wide eyes, sending her a silent ‘what the fuck?’

Does she know how lucky she is right now? She could have been shot on sight.

“Something’s come up. I’ll call you later.” Clemens slips his phone back into his pocket and sneers at the pair of them. “You two are getting to be real pests.”

She’d better explain herself quick, before he can call for reinforcements.

“Listen, please! You can’t blow this place up. You just can’t.”

“And who are you to order me around?”

She hits him with her best I’m Not Afraid of You look. “I’m the one who’s going to find Aphrodite’s cestus for you.”

What the hell is she thinking?

Sam keeps his gun trained on Clemens, his body angled so that the weapon is out of view of the tourists gathered not too far away.

He’s got her back without question, but a heads up would have still been nice. There’s a wall between them now, that’s for damn sure. He thought he’d managed to tear some of it down earlier, but it seems she’s quite the little bricklayer.

“You want to start explaining yourself,” Clemens says, and for once Sam agrees with him.

“This place is important, sacred, to so many people all around the world. I couldn’t live with myself if I let you destroy it, when there was something I could have done. So… I’ll help you find the cestus, if you’ll agree not to detonate any more bombs.”

Have her motivations really changed that much? Is she now wanting to martyr herself to ensure an uninterrupted pilgrimage for people she’ll never meet?

Sam doesn’t buy it, but he’ll back her up to the ends of the earth.

Clemens also looks unimpressed. “What makes you think I need your help?”

She smirks. “You’ve met Jackson, right? He’s an idiot. I hate to say it, but he couldn’t find his ass with both hands. I guarantee he’s got your men looking in all the wrong places.”

“And you would know all the right places, I take it?”

“Absolutely.”

Is he actually considering it? He nods towards Sam. “What about your guard dog over here? He’ll be wanting to come along too, I imagine.”

“You’re god damn right, there, Richard,” he butts in before she can say otherwise.

To his relief, she nods in agreement. “He goes where I go, of course.”

Clemens doesn’t look pleased, but when does he ever? “Fine, you can relieve that buffoon Jackson of his task. Remember how outnumbered you are, though, before you attempt anything untoward.”

“Right. Now, please, take us to the cave beneath the cathedral.”

“Just a second,” Sam interjects. “Your gun, hand it over.” He extends his free hand to Clemens.

He huffs about it, but unholsters his revolver.

“I’ll take that.” She grabs the gun before he can fork it over.

He looks her up and down. “Do you even know how to use one of those things?”

She returns his gaze, unblinking. “I’ve had some practice.”

Her stony response seems to have impressed him. “You said the cave? Not the ruins of the Astarte shrine?”

“You won’t find anything at the shrine, it was purposefully destroyed so long ago.”

He leads the way to the cave, continuing his conversational tone. “Yes, on Saint Helena’s orders, wasn’t it?”

“You know the story?” she says, surprised.

“Jackson has had his nose stuck in your history books since we got here, trying to dig up some clues. He seems to feel the need to run each and every one of his theories past me the moment they enter his head.”

It’s pretty comical how annoyed he sounds. Serves him right for poaching her jerk of a research assistant.

Two of Clemens’ goons come running, their feet thundering along the paving. Where the hell have they been up until now?

Shit, this could go south real quick. What should Sam do?

He’s saved from having to decide on a course of action by Clemens himself, who waves the grunts away.

“Gather up Jackson and his team. We’re taking a trip into the old cave,” he says like it was all his idea.

He must not pay his thugs enough to think for themselves, since they don’t even question their boss, before trotting off towards where Sam assumes the shrine is.

The unlikely trio cross the stony courtyard and arrive at the cathedral, and isn’t it funny how these houses of God still give him the willies?

The statue of the Virgin Mary sits in an archway beside the heavy wooden door that bars them from entering. Her peaceful gaze peers straight into Sam’s heart, seeing all the roiling conflict there.

Doesn’t she know how long it’s been since he cast off the faith he was strapped with at that orphanage? Does she approve of his liberal Hail Mary’s only as and when it’s convenient?

Bah. Now isn’t the time for some good old Catholic guilt. If he’s going to burst into flames the moment he sets foot in the cathedral, then so be it. All the more reason to get this over with.

Why does he feel like things are only going to get worse from here on out?


	17. Chapter 17

At least no one’s shot you yet. So far, so good.

The weight of the clunky revolver in your hand keeps you grounded. You follow Clemens through the massive wooden door, and into Maghdouché’s cathedral. Sam is a firm presence at your back, one you’ve come to rely on for your safety and peace of mind.

You’re going to miss him when all this is over and you go back to your respective lives. Try not to think about it right now. Focus on the task at hand.

“That must be the entrance to the cave, over there,” you say, pointing.

There’s a stone archway in the wall at the back of the room, a heavy wrought iron gate barring the way through. Matching candelabra flank the gate on both sides, dripping with wax from the tall, ornamental candles. Gifts and offerings to the Virgin are scattered around, lined up in piles against the walls, dusted in rose petals. This place is revered, even today.

“Luckily, the custodian was kind enough to give me his keys.” Clemens unhooks a ring of keys from his belt. One of them is larger than the others, made of the same dark iron as the gate.

Your steps falter. “Did… did he give them to you willingly?”

He turns to you with a wolfish grin. “You weren’t made for this business, darling.”

Your skin crawls in revulsion. Blackened thoughts threaten to rise in your throat like bile. How many people will die before this is done?

You follow Clemens past the pews, and grip your gun tighter.

A warm hand lands on your shoulder, and squeezes gently. It’s Sam. “Hey, you all right?”

Under different circumstances, you could lose yourself in the seriousness of his eyes. As things stand now, you manage a tight smile. You return your gaze to Clemens as he fits the iron key into the matching lock on the gate.

The cathedral door creaks open once more, the padding of many footsteps following.

Sam raises his gun at the newcomers, and jerks his chin towards Clemens. “Keep your gun on him. If he moves, shoot him.” His voice is harsh, and affords no room for questions.

“Right.” You cock the revolver’s hammer with your thumb. It’s tricky, made for stronger hands than yours, but you manage. You aim for Clemens’ centre of mass, trying to mask how fast your heart is beating.

Jackson storms down the aisle, head and shoulders above his guards, a scowl on his face. His hair has lost its lustre, tied back in a greasy ponytail, and his clothes are sweat-stained and dusty. Lebanon hasn’t been kind to him.

When he reaches the back of the cathedral, his face clears up into a look of great disbelief. “What? You’re alive?”

“Yeah. No thanks to you, you jerk.” You sneer at him, but your hatred is faltering.

He looks rough, and for some reason, relieved to see you again. What should you make of that?

A shorter, stockier man pushes his way past Jackson, a military-grade rifle with dried blood on the butt propped against his shoulder. It’s the guy who raided your underwear drawer back home! “It must be my lucky day,” he says. “I get to kill you two myself.”

Sam focusses his gun on the panty thief with relish. “Great, the whole gang’s here.”

Clemens shoves the iron gate open with a _clang_ , and he waves his hand at the handful of armed guards. “At ease, we’re all friends here. We’re just going to take a look at the cave beneath this place. Now, Mr Drake, I assume you have stipulations?”

Of course he bypasses you, and addresses your male companion. Misogynist.

“Damn right, I do," Sam says. "Your goons can stay up here, but we’ll bring the weasel with us, to keep an eye on him.”

Jackson is visibly affronted by the ‘weasel’ comment, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. “Fine, but Burton comes too.”

So, the panty snatcher has a name? Gross.

Clemens nods in agreement. “Burton’s presence is one of my requirements, too.”

Sam groans. “Sure, whatever. But he leaves his gun up here.”

“That’s agreeable. The rest of you, set up a perimeter around the cathedral. To make sure you aren’t going to kill me and leave my body in this pit, someone will return to check on us in an hour.”

“All right, all right, let’s just get down there for fuck’s sake. Anyone got a flashlight?”

After a short argument involving lots of posturing from the men, the order of procession down into the cave is decided. Or rather, you decide for them, by grabbing Jackson by the arm and pushing him towards the gate. With your gun at his back, of course. He grumbles a little, but swings the heavy-duty flashlight into his hands, and lights the way for you both to begin the descent.

Being in such a narrow space is unnerving, made worse by Clemens and Burton breathing down your neck. The knowledge that Sam is watching your back from his position at the end of the line is what saves you from freaking out.

You edge your way down the ancient stone steps, hewn for people with daintier feet than yours, and you keep one hand against the cool stone wall for balance. Your other hand still clutches the gun. You wind further under the earth, until at last the passage evens out and the walls are no longer manmade.

“Uh, it’s a dead end,” Jackson says, when you reach the bottom of the steps.

“What? Let me see!” You push him aside, difficult in the cramped quarters.

He’s right. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day, isn’t it?

The tiny cave lies before you in all its miniscule glory. There’s a large, smooth rock off to the side that gives you vivid visions of the Virgin Mary sitting there waiting, but that’s it.

No murals. No statue. No clues. No... nothing.

What are you supposed to do now?

***

Sam zones out, as Clemens’ speech about how valuable his time is and how expendable their lives are really gets into full swing. It’s hard not to.

Did she ever factor into her plan what would happen to them if she was wrong? Is it too generous of him to assume she has a plan at all?

“Wait! What’s that over there?” She interrupts Clemens’ droning, and hops to the other side of the cave, feeling her way along the walls. “Light, please.”

Jackson pans the flashlight around, illuminating the wall in front of her.

She presses her palm to the stone. “Yes, here! This section isn’t natural, it’s been purposefully blocked off. I think it was a way through.”

“Fat lot of good it does us now, though.” Jackson sighs like a put-upon teenager.

“I’m surrounded by idiots.” Clemens sneers at them. “Burton, go fetch some form of explosive. Use your best judgement.”

“I’ll go too,” Sam says, before turning to address her, “Hack off one of Jackson’s ears if he gets annoying.”

She smirks, and pats the machete at her side. “I’ll hack off something.”

What a woman. Does she know she’s sexy as hell when she’s self-assured?

He grins to himself as he follows Burton back up the treacherous stairs, keeping his gun aimed at the merc’s back.

It’s nice to see her perking up again, even if it could just be a front to hide how she’s hurting. That her promising spark hasn’t been extinguished by all she’s been through is a hopeful sign.

The two men reach the top of the stairs and blink in the light streaming in through the cathedral’s windows. Burton stalks through the pews, Sam hot on his heels, until they’re both out in the sweltering Lebanon sun.

There’s a weapons crate not far from the entrance, and Burton flips the lid open to expose its contents.

Sam whistles. “You guys planning on starting a war, or something?”

“This job has its perks.”

Under Sam’s careful supervision, he rifles through their various means for blowing shit sky high. He settles on a sticky grenade with a separate detonator, far from the coolest thing in the crate. It’s a little disappointing.

Sam holds out his hand. “I’ll be taking that.”

Burton hands it over without fuss. “Yeah, whatever. You’re the boss.”

His compliance serves to make Sam more suspicious, but there’s not much he can do about it now. Clemens’ guards still surround the place, and she's stuck down there with those two creeps.

“Let’s head back. You first.”

Burton grunts, pushing through the wooden cathedral door once more. They make their way back down into the subterranean cavern, and soon enough Clemens’ droning voice bounces up to them off the cave walls.

He's sorry for leaving her down here with him.

“Great, you’re back!” she chirps, interrupting one of Clemens’ Very Important Speeches for the second time today. The ease of her smile and the casual way she pops her hip makes Sam want her all over again.

“But of course.” He winks at her, not missing how Jackson’s face scrunches in disgust. “Now, if everyone could stand back.”

He fixes the grenade to the blocked off wall and joins the rest of the group further down the passage.

“This has got to be a sin, right? This feels like a sin,” she says, her face contrite.

“Oh, honey, none of us are getting into heaven after this.”

“Not helping, Sam. Oh, my god.”

“We can all ask the Virgin for forgiveness later,” Clemens drawls. “Can we please just get on with it?”

“Okay, okay.” Sam holds up the detonator. “Uh, three… two… one!”

He hits the switch.

With a muffled _boom_ , a dust cloud fills the narrow space. Coughing up a collective lung, they wait for it to settle before venturing back into the sacred cave that they’re just blasted a hole through.

“Help me clear the rubble,” Sam orders Burton, and the two begin moving the cracked rocks out of the way so they can see what they’re dealing with.

Jackson stands by, lanky and awkward.

“Come over here,” she says to him, a playful look on her face. “This is where the women and the elderly stand.” She gestures to the corner she shares with Clemens, out of the way.

That seems to snap Jackson out of his funk, and he moves to help remove the debris away from the hole in the wall.

Is he still trying to impress her? Not gonna happen, buddy.

At last, they’ve cleared a space big enough to fit through, and Jackson shines his flashlight into the cavern beyond. “It looks like there’s another passage through here!”

“Let’s go!” She mirrors his enthusiasm, and the two of them squeeze through the uncovered gap, leaving Sam and the others to follow behind.

He couldn’t imagine the two of them working together before, but it’s sliding into place now. They’re both total history nerds, with much more in common than they’d like to admit. He frowns to himself. They’d better not get too cosy—and he doesn’t care if it’s selfish of him. He hasn’t had the chance to find out how her lips taste.

“What the hell?” Her voice echoes throughout the chamber, and Sam hurries around the corner to be with her.

She’s with Jackson, standing in a little square room, not unlike the one they found under the Temple of Aphrodite, staring at one of the walls. A giant, multi-ringed dial is affixed to the southern wall, emblazoned with symbols and glyphs, like some ancient safe combination lock.

“Sam, are you seeing this?” She pushes past her old assistant, her eyes gleaming in the low light. “Isn’t this incredible?”

He reaches out for her, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear and thumbing her cheekbone softly. “It is. You made it, sweetheart.”

Clemens and Burton choose this moment to round the corner, the former’s face lighting up like a sinister Christmas day as he surveys the room. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere!”


	18. Chapter 18

‘You made it, sweetheart.’ If the two of you were alone, you’d climb him like a tree.

Deep in a dusty subterranean chamber beneath coastal Lebanon, you’re giddy with excitement for all kinds of reasons. It doesn’t matter that you’re surrounded by enemies, that your entire body aches, that you haven’t eaten anything substantial in who knows how long, or even that you’re in the middle of processing some serious trauma—you’re onto something huge!

Sam drops his hands from your face when the others arrive, and you’re sad for the loss of contact, but this isn’t the time or the place for that.

Jackson steps towards the mysterious dial, as entranced by it as you. “What do you think?”

You grin at him without meaning to. But a sudden reminder of him emptying your purse out onto the table, while his men looted your apartment, has your good mood dimming.

You could have shared this discovery between you, if he hadn’t been such a Judas. Sucks to be him. You’re not giving it up.

When you told Clemens you’d find the cestus for him? A little white lie.

You’ll find it, all right. But not for him.

You just need to figure out how. Maybe you should have planned this out with Sam first, instead of running in half-cocked. But you can’t go back now.

“I’m not sure what to think, exactly,” you say. “But this looks pretty promising, doesn’t it?”

“Well, there’s an easy way to get past this.” Burton turns to head back to the surface again.

“No!” You round on him. “No more explosives. Do you want to destroy the very thing we’re all here for?”

He rolls his eyes and resumes leaning against the wall, crossing his arms in contempt.

Sam’s grinning like he finds the whole exchange amusing. “You tell him, dear,” he says.

He’s annoying, but he’s no traitor. You move to his side, bumping his shoulder with yours.

“You might have strongarmed your way down here,” Clemens says, “but let’s not pretend your lives don’t hinge on what is behind that door. Find a way to get it open.”

He’s not wrong.

You turn to Sam. “You’ve broken into safes in your time, right?”

He chuckles. “Well yeah, but I’d usually steal the combination first.”

“And if you couldn’t get the combination?”

“I’ve found crowbars to be quite effective. Not much use here, though.”

Shoot. There goes your master-thief image of him.

Jackson looks like he wants to offer his expertise, but you’re not ready to listen to him yet. You’re still icky from being cordial with him earlier.

“We’ll just have to figure out the code ourselves,” you say. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Excitement and anxiety thrum in your veins. Maybe the adrenaline will kick your brain into high gear.

The others disperse around the small room, offering their thoughts aloud or examining the dials up close. Sam and Jackson work together to try to move the outermost ring, finding that it does move with some effort.

It’s weird seeing them side by side; your new world colliding with your old one, as it were.

Last week, you’d have cringed away from a professional thief ex-con, fourteen years older than you. You'd have called him a grave robber, or a thug. He would have terrified you, not fascinated you.

Jackson had once seemed a safe bet, a harmless creep whose ass you could kick if you needed to. You’d assumed he’d trail after you, desperate for scraps, forever.

Funny how a week can tip your worldview upside down, isn’t it?

You push the thoughts aside for now to focus on the puzzle lock and its symbols. Your proficiency for forcing uncomfortable emotions down has really come in handy on this adventure.

Okay. Three rings. Let’s start with the biggest.

From the top and going around clockwise: there’s a horse, the planet Venus, a lion, a sphinx, a dove, and a rose. All your typical Astarte faire.

The middle ring bears: a rose, a lion, Venus, a horse, a sphinx, and a dove.

And the little ring in the centre: Venus, dove, sphinx, rose, horse, lion.

It’s just a load of Astarte’s symbols. How are you supposed to know the correct order?

Maybe you should include Jackson in your musings, after all. His proficiency lies in the broader topics of Greek mythology and, more recently, betrayal, but he’s a good solid wall to bounce your ideas off of. If nothing else.

“So, what have you got?” you say, knowing he’ll jump to answer.

He joins you in appraising the three rings. “These are definitely all symbols of Astarte.”

“Yeah, no shit.” You roll your eyes. So much for that. You turn to Sam. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

He nods. “Yeah, actually. They’re more common than you’d think. It seems whenever anybody had treasure to hide, they liked to set up little tests like this to see if you’re worthy to lay eyes on it.”

“If they wanted it hidden, why not just seal the chamber off? Why make a lock that can be solved and opened?”

“You’re assuming this thing can be solved!” He laughs. “But they didn’t want it hidden from everyone, just the wrong people.”

“So, we need to look for something that only the right people would know the significance of?”

“Bingo.” He smiles at you and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes weaken your knees.

It’s wrong that you can still feel flushed and excited after the things that you’ve done. There are people that will never feel anything ever again because of you.

Push it down.

“We should probably figure out who those right people were, for a start,” you say.

The Cult of Astarte? What would an Astarte worshipper see in these glyphs that a member of a rival cult wouldn’t? Do the symbols hold some other significance?

Do you know enough about Astarte to pass this test of mettle?

“What are the odds we bust in there and find a statue of some other goddess that leads us to another hole in the ground?” Jackson says in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Sam snorts, but you don’t find it funny. It’s struck a chord somewhere in the back of your mind.

“Another goddess?” You try willing the realisation to make itself known instead of swirling around your brain like smoke.

Sam catches your eye, grinning like he knows you’re onto something. “Astarte became Aphrodite, right? Who was she before she was Astarte?”

You rack your brain. “God, it depends how far you go back, or what part of the world you go to. All of these deities of femininity and sexuality share common roots.”

“Wait right here and hold that thought. I’m going to get you a map.” He heads back to the passageway that leads up and out. “You, with me.” He nods to Burton, who looks like he was falling asleep against the wall.

Once more you’re left alone, outnumbered by enemies. The bulky revolver is making your arm ache, but you’re not about to put it down.

How powerful would the kickback be if you fired a shot? No doubt you’d feel it for some time afterwards, even if it didn’t dislocate both your shoulders for your trouble. It would hurt.

Would it be worth it?

Clemens, for all his posturing and obnoxiousness just looks tired and old. Is he doing all of this for his wife? Is that any less of a noble goal than your own?

Could you do it, if you had to? Could you shoot him?

Then there's Jackson. Until recently, you’d counted him among your dwindling number of friends. Now though, he’s stolen from you, betrayed you, put your life at risk more than once.

But could you shoot him?

The toxic soup of your emotions threatens to boil over again. You put a lid on it.

Without Sam around, it’s hard to remember the positive consequences of your actions. He’d be dead without you.

When he’s with you, it’s easier to drown out the screaming of your insides.

***

Sam’s getting sick of climbing up and down these tiny stairs. He rounds the corner, returning to the underground chamber with a map folded up under his arm and a marker pen in his free hand.

She looks at him, like she’s got no idea what he’s thinking, and he can’t help the way the corner of his mouth quirks up at her confused expression. She’s gonna love this.

Burton returns to his arduous task of propping up the wall, and Sam lays the map out on the ground at her feet.

“What—” she starts, but he waves her away.

“Hear me out,” he says, uncapping the marker with his teeth. “We started here…” He circles Cyprus. “And now we’re over here.” He draws another circle, this time around the coastal area of Lebanon.

“Yes, we knew this already,” Clemens huffs.

“Look, gramps, if you’ve got a better idea then I’m all ears.”

“My better idea was shot down by the precious princess over there.”

Sam snorts. “You mean Jackson?”

Jackson groans and crouches over the map. “Can we just figure out this puzzle, please? Where are you going with this?”

“Right.” Sam draws a line on the map. “Look, it’s practically a straight line from Paphos to Maghdouché.”

She shrugs. She’s still not getting it? Her sexy intellect must be failing her for once.

“Come on, get that big, beautiful brain of yours in gear,” he says. “The Cult of Astarte travelled west to Cyprus. Where did they come from before that? Hell, where did they go afterwards? If we can get into their mindset, we can open this door. You’ve got this, I know you do.”

She smiles at him then, the tiniest, sweetest smile he’s ever seen. She sits across from him on the dusty ground, holding her hand out for the pen. “It’s easy enough to plot where they went afterwards,” she says, drawing a line into the west. “First you hit Greece, of course, and then Rome, where she became Venus.”

Attagirl. “And if we head eastward?”

“If we follow the line back in time, well… we could end up in any number of places. But…” She draws another line, from Lebanon, through Jordan and into Iraq. “I think the most obvious place is Mesopotamia.”

“Which means?”

She looks up at him, eyes sparkling with an idea. “Inanna, Queen of Heaven.”

Who? But before he can ask for clarification, she springs to her feet, heading to the dials on the wall with a skip to her step.

“I was wrong,” she mutters, running her fingers over the symbols. “These aren’t roses—they’re rosettes! One of Inanna’s icons!” She tries turning the little ring in the centre to no avail. “Give me a hand, somebody.”

Jackson steps in to help her, but when the smallest ring begins to turn, so too does the one on the outside.

“What? The rings move each other? That’s a pain in the ass,” she says, huffing.

“Move over.” Sam takes her place at the dial. “I’m really good at these.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, but stands back to watch. “Okay, I’m guessing we want all three rosettes to line up with those grooves running down the middle.”

“All right, should be easy enough,” Sam says, and he and Jackson get to work.

Twenty minutes later and it’s quite apparent that it is not easy enough. Both Sam and Jackson are sweaty from exertion, and they take a moment’s break.

So much for impressing her with his prowess and strength.

“They just won’t line up.” Jackson groans. “As soon as we get one in place, another one moves out.”

“I thought you were really good at these.” She offers Sam a wry smile.

“Don’t you go doubting my talents now, sweetheart,” he says, wiping his brow. “Are you sure about the solution? Maybe one ring needs to be on a rosette, but the other two are different?”

She frowns, but nods in concession. “That would make for a better passcode, wouldn’t it? Let me have another look.” She hooks the revolver into her belt and crosses her arms, her face crumpled into an adorable expression of deep thought.

Between the gun and the machete, she’s getting to be like a one-woman-army. It’s kind of hot, in a guilt-inducing sort of way. He hopes to God that when she gets that cestus in her hands, everything will be worth it.

“What other symbols does Inanna have?” Jackson says. “Maybe there’s some overlap.”

“If we’re sticking with the Inanna theory, I’m pretty sure the dove is one of them. They’re all really into their doves.”

Sam nods. “Rosette and dove, got it. One more?”

“I’m not really sure, but there are only four choices left, right?”

“Hang on,” Sam says, an idea striking him. “The statue in Paphos had a dove and a lion.”

Her face lights up. “It did! Can you make the dials line up with those glyphs?”

Sam and Jackson waste no time in rotating the rings, trying to fit the three symbols into the grooves in the stone.

“And now, if we just move this outer one to the lion, then—” Sam grunts with effort as the last dial rolls into place.

The tension in the chamber is palpable as the five of them hold their breaths in anticipation. Even Burton seems interested to see what’s going to happen next.

There’s a rumbling deep in the earth and the shriek of stone grinding on stone. Excruciatingly slow, the wall bearing the dial sinks into the floor, revealing the crypt beyond.

“Holy goddamn shit,” she breathes, and Sam has to agree.

Holy goddamn shit.


End file.
